


Rag and Bone Sympathy

by jbolle89



Series: Rag and Bone Sympathy [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Agateophobia, Blood and Violence, Both Realistic and Slightly Unrealistic Depictions of Therapy, Dark!Matt, Eventual Sex, Foggy Just Wants to Help, Friends to Lovers, Heavy Angst, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Hurt/Comfort, I promise things get better, Language, M/M, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Slow Burn, Slow recovery, Some Allusions to Suicidal Thoughts, Some Fluff, There is a Light in the Distance, anger issues, fears of abandonment, graphic depictions of self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-16
Updated: 2017-11-18
Packaged: 2018-08-09 06:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 59,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7789528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jbolle89/pseuds/jbolle89
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Matt puts away Fisk he finds himself waiting for the next big fight. More time passes, though, with little to no action. His composure unravels, and he's left with questions over his purpose and identity, a resurfacing of childhood anxieties, and a dangerous new habit that he develops to cope. </p><p>Warning: highly graphic descriptions of self-harm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. It's in my Honey, It's in my Milk

_“Sorrow found me when I was young,_  
_sorrow waited, sorrow won_  
_sorrow, they put me on the pill_  
_it’s in my honey, it’s in my milk_

_don’t leave my hyper heart alone_  
_on the water_  
_cover me in rag-and-bone_  
_sympathy_  
_because I don’t want to get over you…”_

Matthew Murdock stood in the center of his living room in the dark, save for the glow of the damn billboard. He had a razor in his hand, and he wasn’t entirely sure why he had grabbed it from the bathroom. Wasn’t sure why he had extracted it from the single-blade safety razor. He looked down at it as if he were studying it, though he couldn’t see the details or shape. Couldn’t see any of it, of course, but still he kept his gaze on it. He turned it in his hand, once, twice, and felt the chill of it. The coldness and sleekness of it was comforting, in a way. The weight of it in his hand felt good. He gently ran his thumb along the edge, testing its sharpness. His heart beat increased. 

Matt slowly raised his t-shirt and put his free hand on his stomach, feeling the old scars there from all of his fights in the suit. He could feel the echo of his pulse in his belly, his fingers cold and damp, and he began to shiver. He was breathing harder, heavier, and he still wasn’t quite sure what was the cause, not entirely sure what was to come. He felt compelled, possessed, agitated. His fingers gripped the razor, trembling with the rest of him. 

Suddenly, with one quick, compulsive sweep of his hand, he dragged the blade across his abdomen. The flesh split so easily with that sharp blade, so cleanly, that the initial touch of the metal was almost nonexistent. Then the pain dulled in, throbbing and tingling. It felt sharp and invasive, inside the skin. The nerve endings on the cut skin screamed as if they burned in a fire, scorching alive and dying. For a moment there was a white, pale chasm in his skin, and then that chasm began to fill up with blood. He felt the blood welling, flooding, and then spilling over the side of the cut and down his stomach, immediately cooling on his belly. 

He sighed shakily, and felt the chemicals in his brain rush in to cloud the pain. He felt… loosened inside. Freer and more open. Relieved. 

He let the wound bleed freely until it clotted on its own. 

~~~

The day after, the morning after, he felt as if he had come out of a stupor and was deeply ashamed. He was afraid of the dark place he had found himself in but it wasn’t unlike the place he was so used to going when he put on the suit at night. Except… he hadn’t accomplished a thing. Nobody was saved, nobody’s life made better because of his pain. There were so many people suffering in the city, and he was focusing on himself, his own pain. It felt… selfish. _Pathetic_. And, blatant self-harm was practically heretical in the Catholic church anymore. 

He climbed out of bed and cleaned the dried blood off of his stomach, but he didn’t patch the wound. He probably deserved to feel it if he was going to be so self-centered and foolish. He deserved to feel the fresh cut chafing against his clothing, his extra sensitive nerves being rubbed raw with every movement. 

It was weeks before Matt considered cutting again, before he even let himself remember what had transpired. Things got quiet in Hell’s Kitchen. Now that the devil was out on the streets and Fisk was behind bars, the criminal activity had taken a drastic halt. There was a mugging here and there, a domestic disturbance that the cops could handle and did. There were small-time thefts, cars broken into. But suddenly Matt began to feel so…unnecessary. Hell, maybe he was.

But…he still had the devil in him, clawing and gnashing, hungry to be released. 

~~~

“You’re bleeding, Matt…” Foggy whispered. 

“Hm?” Matt looked up in Foggy's direction from the braille sheets in front of him. Foggy sat across from him in his office, both of them going over a handful of case papers from a recent client. 

“You- bleeding – all over the desk, man…” Foggy hissed, reaching across the desk and grasping Matt’s forearm. He gave it a little shake as if to gesture that this was the offending appendage.

“Oh…” Matt said, withdrawing his hand from Foggy’s grip quickly and feeling for the damp spot, finding it on the side of his forearm. He had gotten so used to the smell of his own blood in its various states, fresh, clotted, hardened and healing, that he began tuning it out a long time ago. A stripe of red shined through his white shirt as if it were translucent. As if he were naked. 

“Hurry and clean that up before Karen sees it!” Foggy urged with a whisper, glancing to the frosted window separating where they sat from Karen’s space. 

Matt nodded and stood from his desk, fingers outstretched as he felt for the wooden edge, his walking stick, and then the door. He swiftly but quietly headed out of the office and down the hall to the bathroom.

When he returned, he could feel Foggy’s anger filling the room. Matt had dabbed at the spot but knew a stain would remain on the shirt, so he put his suit jacket back on overtop to cover it. He sat down across from Foggy again, waiting to be reproached.

There were a few moments of stewing silence, and then, “Rough night?” Foggy asked sarcastically, still staring down at his own case notes. 

Matt felt anxious, almost panicked. Really, he hadn’t been out for very long at all last night. The streets had been relatively quiet. He had returned home, trying to tell himself it wasn’t disappointment he was feeling, and he had gone to bed at an actually human time. But he had shaken with rage, with anticipation, clutching the sheets as if he was being tortured. 

After about an hour of this he jumped back out of bed, grabbed the large razorblade from the bathroom again, and made three quick angry hacks on the top of his forearm. The relief was instant and gratifying, but this time the guilt was right on his heels. He threw the razor across the room and fell to his knees, burying his face into the edge of his bed as if he were about to pray, only to scream into the sheets. 

“Matt?” Foggy sounded concerned. His friend had just gone silent after that last remark, and now he was looking a little pale. “Are you okay, buddy?”

“Uh- yeah. I’m fine, F-Foggy.” He licked his lips, feeling a little sick. “I’m fine.” he repeated, quieter. He felt the anxiety building in him, and suddenly he felt like a trapped animal. 

“ _Um-_ “ He stood back up quicker then he intended to, not wanting to alarm Foggy but obviously failing. “I’m actually going to go…to go home. Change my shirt.” He exhaled hastily, trying to steady his breath. He felt dizzy, sick to his stomach.

Foggy stood up too. “Are… yeah? Are you sure you’re okay? Do you want me to walk you downstairs and hail you a cab?”

“No, Foggy. I’m fine. I’m going to walk.” he said as he bolted out of the room. Karen jumped as Matt rushed out the front door of their office, and Foggy followed, stopping just at the threshold. 

“Matt!” He called, but he wasn’t sure what he thought it would accomplish. He knew Matt wasn’t going to stop or turn back around. Fuck, he knew Matt wouldn’t even talk to him when he was like this. 

Suddenly Karen was at his shoulder. “Where’s Matt going?” she asked, her voice becoming anxious.

“Home.” Foggy huffed. “He wasn’t feeling well, so I told him to go home.” 

“Well, is he okay?” she asked, though she knew Foggy wouldn’t tell her even if he wasn’t.

“Yeah, he’s fine. Just… tired, I guess.” Foggy sighed, facing Karen and hating that he was stuck lying to her yet again.

She closed her lips sternly and then turned back to her desk, and Foggy looked down at his shoes.

~~~

Matt walked swiftly back to his apartment, attempting desperately to hide the visibility of his panic. He stuck mainly to side roads and alleyways, doing his best to avoid large groups of people. Not only was he wholly ashamed of his sudden and unexplained condition, but he also found he was having difficulty blocking out the excess noise. Just the thought of attempting to squeeze through a large school of people on the main sidewalks caused a heavy queasiness in his gut, his breath hard to catch all over again. He felt that everyone he did pass or run into could tell something was wrong with him; as if he was a walking billboard for mental illness. 

When he finally did climb the stairs to his apartment and shut the door briskly behind him he waited just inside the entrance, a part of him thinking that simply being alone would subside his panic. It didn’t, though. He dropped his briefcase to the floor and tore off his jacket, heading into the middle of his living room and panting. _Was he losing his mind_? 

When Matt was a kid, the first year after the accident, he had developed a phobia that he might go crazy. He even established a couple of borderline compulsive tests to assess his level of sanity, to see if he was still coherent. He’d do logical things; math equations and puzzles in his mind. He’d give himself a simple task that forced him to navigate the house, and see if he could complete it like a normal, sane individual. Most of all, though, he still remembered an intensely distinct fear that if he somehow “let go” of his sanity then he _would_ go crazy, perhaps falling forever into a large black hole in his own mind. He had imagined his dad walking into his bedroom and finding him on the floor, slumped like a ragdoll, alive but cataleptic. 

Of course, he never told his dad about this, and his dad didn’t live much longer anyways. He thought for sure that he _had_ gone crazy when he was in that orphanage, until Stick found him and pulled him out of his brain. Now though, twenty years later, those same fears seemed to be clawing their way back out of him. 

He was tired of feeling out of control, tired of feeling sick and dizzy. He had to do something to quell the panic. He couldn’t imagine sitting still long enough to meditate, and instead found himself heading for the bathroom. This time, he knew exactly what was going to happen, and he didn’t care.

He grabbed the large razor yet again and exposed his thigh, breath held, swiping the blade across his thick muscle twice. A large gash followed by a smaller one. The sharp pain was quickly followed by a deep-seated relief, the tension and anxiety spilling out of him almost instantly. He dropped the razor in the sink and pressed at the cut firmly as if he were bloodletting his mental illness, draining the fear from his body. Suddenly, it was easier to breathe, easier to focus. 

He lowered himself to the floor in the bathroom and sat there until the wounds refused to bleed any longer. 

~~~

Things continued to wax and wane in Hell’s Kitchen over the next couple weeks. Daredevil got a hold of a mid-level drug dealer, a really pathetic individual, and went overkill on the beating. He stopped a mugging, chased down the assailant, and shattered his jaw on the pavement. These guys were frail. They were no match, really. Over and over Matt told himself that he should be happy, relieved, that maybe he had actually made a difference in Hell’s Kitchen. Maybe the days of big crime and corruption were coming to an end in his city. Deep down, however, he just found himself waiting for the next big fight. It had been three months since they put Kingpin away, since all those corrupted cops had been arrested. This couldn’t be it. He just always expected some other obstacle to surface. 

He tried his best to forget about that day that he had the panic attack, but it remained in the back of his mind. Something was itching in him, just under his already sensitive skin. He felt uncomfortable almost all the time, found that sleeping was even harder than it used to be. The more he tried to force himself into normality the more his stubborn mind reeled against him, and all the while he sat with the gnawing question that he was becoming useless in Hell’s Kitchen. He didn’t want to ask himself what would possibly come next. 

The cutting increased, and it was usually at night. Even after he broke that guy’s jaw he found his skin itching, squirming for pain and relief. He began to feel like a drug addict, like he was losing control. He would fight it at first, attempt to distract himself, and then give in to the urge to slice his flesh. After the incident at the office he resolved to stick to the legs, mainly his hips and thighs. 

When it all first began the cuts intermingled easily with the wide array of bruises and scars he had over his entire body. They blended in, almost innocently, like white lies. But then there were patterns starting to form, suspiciously parallel gashes and X’s. Each time was just one more time, what’s the harm in one more, and yet each mark was another reason to give in again tomorrow. He found himself swiftly reaching a point where it didn’t seem to matter anymore, there was no turning back, anyways. 

But he still did his best to cut less. He began to adopt other little habits to help him cope, to drag out the satisfaction of the cut. He never patched them, never stitched them, always allowed them to flush raw against the open air or drag against his clothing. As more and more cuts emerged his thighs began to feel like an open nerve, sharp and prickling with each movement. He did his best not to flinch or limp. 

Matt was so used to secret injuries, though these were a different animal. These were like a private declaration of guilt, a sick and satisfying secret that he had gotten what he deserved. The pain was distracting, but it was also redeeming. Now he had a reason to hurt, even if everything else should be going so well. 

Matt could feel himself withdrawing even more from his friends, though he tried desperately to act at ease around them. He could feel Foggy’s gaze on him more often, as well as Karen’s, and she would talk to him with an even quieter and gentler voice than usual that made him feel like a small animal. There were eyes on him when he sat in the office, eyes watching him fall apart quietly, and it took all the self-control he had to not just stand up and scream. 

Hell, part of him wanted to let go. Crumble to pieces in the office, fall to the floor, and throw some kind of fit. Throw the furniture, break the windows. Yell until the skin in his throat shredded. Slip into some kind of oblivion. He began to wonder if he did let go of that little thread, if he did cut that tie, would he even be able to get it back? If he lost control, could he ever really get it back? 

It was one day in particular that Matt paused on his way out the door, paused right in the middle of the office with Foggy walking in front of him and Karen behind. Foggy had expected the man to follow, and stopped and turned in confusion when he didn’t. 

“Matt?” he asked, his voice suddenly apprehensive. Karen stopped behind him, echoing Foggy, tucking her hair behind her ears like she always did when she was uneasy.

For one fleeting moment Matt anticipated that this was the day he had reached his limit, this was the moment. He had grown so sick of the façade. He could just nearly feel the dry, burning sobs in the back of his throat, his fingertips beginning to tingle, the blood rushing wild inside him with the intense thought of letting it all go. Then, just at the last second, he gathered himself. Put himself back together, once again. For the millionth time. 

He cleared his throat. “…Just thought I forgot something,” he explained, attempting a sturdy voice. He walked past Foggy and Foggy clapped him on the back of the shoulder, though much gentler than usual. Matt didn’t say anything as they waited for a cab, and Karen stared at him the whole time, her heart rate a loud thump.

Karen didn’t know about his other big secret, but Foggy did and his agitation with Matt had become more frequent, telling Matt that his best friend felt this must somehow be connected to “Daredevil”. Foggy would try to talk to him about his evening activities, but he didn’t seem to know how to yet. If he was abrupt about it Matt would do his best to ease Foggy’s mind, and he was honest with Foggy that he hadn’t been out in the suit much anyways. He just neglected to share with Foggy what it was doing to him.

~~~

“What the hell is going on with Matt, Foggy?” Karen hissed from over Foggy’s shoulder as she sat down next to him at the bar. 

It genuinely surprised him, though really it shouldn’t have. He was a fairly predictable guy and Josie’s wasn’t exactly a hiding place. There was helplessness in his eyes as he stared at her; he grew tired of telling her bogus lies about Matt being fine, about silly accidents, and these days he too found himself more worried about Matt Murdock than ever.

“And don’t you dare tell me that he’s fine, or not to worry.” she added sharply as she poured herself a drink from the bottle in front of him. 

“Alright,” Foggy shrugged, taking another drink himself. Karen listened attentively for a moment before she realized that he wasn’t going to add anything else to that response. 

“Foggy,” Karen started, staring into the side of his head. “There is something _wrong_ with Matt. More so than usual, I think. I don’t know him nearly as well as you do, but I’ve seen a change in him. He’s even quieter than before, and he’s distracted. When I first met you two… I thought maybe it had something to do with Fisk, with stress. But it’s getting worse.” She took a deep swig and her eyes rested on the area across the bar that Foggy had also been staring at. 

Foggy sighed deeply, for the countless time that day. She was right, even if she didn’t know Matt too well. “…I don’t know what to tell you, Karen…” he responded, fuzziness from the alcohol creeping into his voice. 

“Well… _is_ this normal? For Matt, I mean? Have you ever seen him like this before?” Karen pried, hoping that together they might come up with a plan of action. 

Foggy just shook his head, his eyes fixed on his glass. 

“He seems depressed, Foggy. Severely depressed. Now I still don’t know what the hell is going on with all those bruises and black eyes, if he were a woman I would think he was being abused. But, Foggy…what if he’s doing it to himself?” Karen whispered, her voice trembling softly. 

“Matt wouldn’t do that, Karen,” Foggy groaned, though he questioned it even as he said it. The day he found out about Daredevil’s identity flashed through his mind, his own words, _what the hell do I know about Matt Murdock_? 

“Okay…” She answered softly. “Well… you do know Matt fairly well, right? I mean, you guys have been friends for years…” 

“Honestly, Karen, I don’t think anyone _really_ knows Matt. Not even Matt.” Foggy sighed, massaging at his temple. 

It was Karen’s turn to sigh. The conversation wasn’t the reassuring one she had hoped for, and the tension in her gut was only increasing with the burn of bourbon. “Foggy, I know that there’s something you two are keeping me out of. I get it, whatever it is, it’s Matt’s business. But it seems like he’s confided in you, he trusts you. You’re the only one he truly trusts, so you have to be the one to reach out to him. You’re the only one that can get to him, the only one that can help him.”

Foggy was now facing her, eyes wide, heart thumping. Fuck, she was right again. But that was a hell of a lot of pressure. To be the only one that could help Matt… he’d do anything he could, he just doubted his capabilities. And, Matt frightened him, just a little. Not that he truly believed the man would hurt him; the sheer depth of the cavern that was Matt Murdock’s psyche was daunting. He was ever-perplexing, and there always seemed to be a new monster around the corner. 

Still, he’d have to man up for Matt’s sake. He finished off his drink, and then nodded vaguely at the bar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and opening lyrics taken from "Sorrow" by The National.


	2. Because My Bright is Too Slight to Hold Back all my Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Jesus, man, I knew you were Catholic but I didn’t think you’d start emulating the Flagellants and literally start doing the punishing all for yourself…” said Foggy as he knelt back down to Matt’s side and opened the bottle. A sickening burst of rubbing alcohol filled Matt’s senses and he resisted the urge to gag. 
> 
> “It’s not…. It’s not like that, Foggy.” Matt said, wetting his lips once again. They were beginning to redden.
> 
> “Oh? And how is it not, Mr. Murdock?” Foggy retorted as he shook some more rubbing alcohol onto the cotton pad. “The Flagellants? A bunch of guilty dudes attempting to avoid God’s persecution by punishing themselves? Whipping themselves? Sounds like Matt Murdock to me.”

_“I know you're coming in the night like a thief_  
_But I've had some time alone, to hone my lying technique_  
_I know you think that I'm someone you can trust_  
_But I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up_

_So do you think that we could work out a sign_  
_So I'll know it's you and that it's over so I won't even try…”_

 

Matt paced back and forth in front of his living room window, over and over, until his breath became labored. He listened to the echoes outside, the cars in the rain, the sounds of people walking and talking. He listened for _something_ , anything that would catch his ear, distract his mind. People laughed. Dogs barked. Windows were gently shut as the rain increased. All the noises culminated into a queasy amalgamation, feeding his panic even further. He began to hyperventilate as he paced, sinking into an internal rage. Drowning in fever. 

Suddenly, he stopped mid-step. His chest heaved. His head throbbed. His mouth, dry. He gave up on the sounds of the city, and dashed over to the kitchen. For what, he wasn’t quite sure. He was now in full panic, and as far as he knew not a damn thing had set it off. He turned on the faucet to get water, began to reach for a glass, but briefly thought he might be sick. He stood there, hunched over the sink, trying to catch his breath and get his bearings on his sanity. Then, he charged the countertop opposite him, flinging open a drawer and searching its contents until his hand found a small knife. Quickly he tested its sharpness by puncturing into his thumb, a bead of blood forming almost instantly. His head was spinning, and he backed into the sink where the water still ran. 

Matt clutched the knife until his knuckles paled, and then pulled the corner of his sweatpants down on one side just enough to expose his hip and upper thigh. With a growl through gritted teeth he sliced just below his hip, over and over, hacking at the same spot until he was yelling and shaking. And… _shit_. It was too much. He dropped the knife and grabbed a stray dish towel to put pressure on the wound. He had gone too far this time. He felt this cut deep in his leg, much deeper than any of the others. Shocks of pain throbbed to his bone with each heartbeat. 

And then, there was a knock at the door. 

“Matt?” called Foggy’s voice from the other side. “You in there?”

Matt growled to himself again. _Fuck_. He dropped the towel in the sink and dragged his fingers over the wound to assess the damage. He could almost insert the tip of his finger into the gash, and he grimaced. Foggy was pounding on the door, then, and Matt flipped up his waistband, stumbling over to the entrance as his head swam, the back of his throat coated with the taste of sweaty copper. He wiped the blood from his hands onto the back of his dark sweatpants and inhaled a hasty, stomach-churned breath. 

“Yes, Foggy. What is it?” Matt asked as he opened the door just slightly, his breathing still labored. He could tell by Foggy’s initial silence that he probably wasn’t looking so good. 

“Are you… what’s wrong with you?” Foggy demanded. 

“Nothing.” Matt’s eyelids fluttered, and he could feel sweat on his brow. “You should have called first.”

“ _I did_!” Foggy yelled, flinging his hands in front of him. “Twice. You’ve been acting so weird lately, I started to freak out when you didn’t answer!” he continued to study Matt. “Can I come in?” he asked, suspicion seeping into his voice. 

“It’s- it’s not a good time Foggy.” Matt stammered.

“Well, Matt, I’m not an idiot, and so I can tell that this is probably exactly the right time for me to be here.” And with that Foggy pushed his way in. 

Matt stepped back, surprised by his friend’s tenacity. He wiped the sweat off his brow and steadied himself against the wall; he could feel Foggy’s eyes on him, grazing over his body.

“You’re hurt, aren’t you?” Foggy murmured. His eyes were drawn to several healed slashes on Matt’s chest, one long slice, and three almost perfect lines on the side of his stomach. Then the three perfectly parallel cuts on his forearm. He looked into Matt’s eyes, though he knew they couldn’t return the contact. 

“What’s going on, Matt?” his voice had softened a bit, but it was still firm. Matt opened his mouth to speak, but then just shook his head. 

“You’re bleeding again…” Foggy urged, and to Matt’s horror Foggy’s fingers grabbed the band of his sweatpants and briefs and yanked the corner down to assess the wound on his hip. There was a moment of shocked silence that rang in Matt’s ears, and then, “What the hell is this, Matt? Did you… do this?” 

Matt closed his eyes and laid his head back against the wall. If there was any time he should lose his mind, it would preferably be now. He actually tried to fall over that edge, hoped for his self-awareness to go black… but nothing happened of the sort. Then, the waistband was pulled down even farther, revealing even more cuts in various stages of healing. Matt tried to push Foggy’s hand away, but it was too late. 

“ _Holy Shit_.” Foggy hissed, letting go of the waistband. Matt winced as it snapped back up over his freshest incision. 

“What the fuck are you doing to yourself, Matt?” Shouted Foggy. 

Matt didn’t know what to say, he felt defeated. He was done. Instead of giving Foggy a reasonable answer he just allowed himself to slide down the wall until he rested on the floor like a ragdoll, exhaustion creeping in from mental fatigue and blood loss. 

“Matt- you okay!?” Foggy shouted, crouching down and grabbing a hold of the man’s shoulders. “Do you need help?” Matt’s eyes looked past his head, but then again they usually did. He couldn’t tell if Matt was in honest-to-god trouble or not. 

He gave Matt a moment to respond and then gave him another shake, his heartrate pounding. _“Will you fucking say something to me?”_ He pleaded. 

Matt opened his mouth to speak, and then licked his lips nervously. “I… I don’t know…” he finally responded, though it was nearly a whisper. 

“What?” Foggy insisted, “what was that?”

“I don’t know… what’s wrong with me…” Matt murmured, his voice sticking in his throat. His eyes, they were so sad then, dark and frightened. Foggy crumbled, any semblance of crossness that was left in him utterly defeated. Matt needed Foggy to be strong, now more than ever, and he would do his best. 

“It’s okay, Matt…” Foggy assured delicately. “you’re going to be okay… I’m going to help you.” He glanced about the room, and then added, “I’m going to get you some water, okay? Just… just stay here.” 

Foggy hurried back with a glass of water, and up until that point Matt hadn’t realized how thirsty he had become. He gulped the water down until he choked for air, Foggy soothingly massaging his hand on Matt’s shoulder. 

“Feel any better?” Foggy asked, though he was increasingly aware that Matt had started to tremble under his hand, his teeth chattering lightly. “You cold?” he asked, “I’ll grab your sweatshirt.” Foggy was on his feet again, then, rummaging through Matt’s clothing in his bedroom until he found something soft and warm. 

Honestly, Matt wasn’t entirely sure that he was cold; he didn’t truly know why he was shaking, hadn’t even been fully aware of the fact until Foggy mentioned it. Still, the sweatshirt that Foggy draped over his shoulders seemed to lessen the tremors. Foggy’s hand was back at his shoulder, soothing in slow circles once again. It’s the kind of thing that might have normally driven Matt crazy, all that constant friction. Tonight, however, it felt grounding, safe. It helped keep him from falling into his mind, which at the moment felt like a dangerous place to be. 

Foggy waited patiently next to Matt, waited with him on the cold floor until he seemed to be at least somewhat stabilized. After about 20 minutes of silence between them, Foggy finally spoke up again. “Matt, I think I should take a look at that cut… can I…?” 

“I… I don’t…” Matt started, shame and embarrassment crashing in. 

“It’s okay, buddy, I’ve already seen it. I just want to make sure you’re okay. Just want to help you…” 

Matt swallowed hard, beginning again to tremble. Still, he nodded, and then cautiously pulled the waistband down just enough to expose the gash that was throbbing internally. 

_“Shit, Matt…”_ Foggy hissed before he could stop himself, suddenly sounding out of breath. Matt flinched at the words, and so Foggy grabbed a hold of the waistband himself in case the other man was about to change his mind. He had not expected so many other scars, so many that were obviously not from fistfights with criminals. How long had this been going on?

Matt could feel the heat from Foggy’s fingertips as he extended them over the hills etched in Matt’s skin, almost touching them but not quite daring to. Finally, the fingers touched down, so lightly that Matt felt the hair on the back of his neck raise. Foggy’s fingers glided over his scars like he was reading braille. 

After an interminable amount of silence, Foggy slowly rose again to his feet.

“W-what are you doing?” Matt asked, cocking his head to get a bearing on Foggy’s actions.

“ _That_ … that looks nasty. I’m going to clean it.” he said, gesturing to the fresh gash on Matt’s upper thigh. 

“No- don’t worry about it Foggy, I’ve had much worse. It’s fine.” Matt stammered. 

“Just, shut up, alright? I’m going to clean that cut.” Foggy disappeared into the bathroom, and Matt heard him searching through the cabinet and drawers until he found what he was looking for. When Foggy returned, Matt heard the sound of liquid sloshing in a bottle. “I’ve got some rubbing alcohol here, it’s going to sting a little. Try not to enjoy it too much.” Foggy snarked. Matt sighed and shifted on the floor, uncomfortable with the attention. 

“Jesus, man, I knew you were catholic but I didn’t think you’d start emulating the flagellants and literally start doing the punishing all for yourself…” said Foggy as he knelt back down to Matt’s side and opened the bottle. A sickening burst of rubbing alcohol filled Matt’s senses and he resisted the urge to gag. 

“It’s not…. It’s not like that, Foggy.” Matt said, wetting his lips once again. They were beginning to redden. 

“Oh? And how is it not, Mr. Murdock?” Foggy retorted as he shook some more rubbing alcohol onto the cotton pad. “The flagellants? A bunch of guilty dudes attempting to avoid God’s persecution by punishing themselves? Whipping themselves? Sounds like Matt Murdock to me.”

“How- how do you even know about that?” Matt asked, just slightly amused. 

“Read about it in High School. The Black Death and all. Always remembered it, but never thought it would end up applying to my own damn life…”

A small smile tugged at Matt’s lips but he stifled it for Foggy’s sake. There was a moment of silence, and Matt could almost feel Foggy’s gaze on his raw skin. 

“I’m going to go find a giant Band-Aid.” Foggy announced. “You do keep those around, right?”

“In the kitchen. First aid kit.” Matt mumbled. 

“Who keeps a first aid kit in their kitchen?” Foggy threw his arms into the air as he headed around the counter. _“Matt Murdock, that’s who”_ he responded to himself under his breath in an overstated deep voice. Matt had to muster a grin, as he was pretty sure that had been for Foggy’s own amusement and he wasn’t supposed to hear it. Foggy, it seemed, was still getting used to the things that Matt could and could not hear. 

“First drawer on the left.” Matt added weakly. “And that was a lovely impression of me.”

He heard the sounds of Foggy rummaging through the kitchen drawers, and then grabbing the first aid kit. Foggy paused in front of the sink, and Matt remembered the discarded kitchen towel. His heart skipped a beat, until it seemed that the other man had decided to keep quiet about it, for the time being at least. 

It was a relief to Matt, really, how Foggy could pull him out of his own mind. Foggy’s entire existence was grounding to Matt, stabilizing. He couldn’t help but wish that he had met the man sooner. Then, Foggy was back at his side. 

“Jesus Matt… did you do this one too?” he asked, his fingers stopping and rubbing a particularly nasty purple scar on the side of Matt’s stomach. 

“No um- that one was from Nobu.” Matt answered sheepishly. 

“Who?” 

“The ninja, Foggy…” he sighed. 

“Oh, right…” Foggy trailed, entranced with the marks and paying only half attention to the conversation. He attempted to position the band aid over the giant gash, but then hesitated. “You know, Matt… this isn’t going to cut it. You really need stitches for this thing.” Foggy sighed. 

“I… I can stitch it up.” Matt insisted.

“You sure?” Foggy asked, “I mean, I could try, but I’ve never done them before…” 

“it’s okay, Foggy. I’m an expert.” Matt attempted a chuckle at that, only realizing afterwards how inappropriate of a comment that was to make at this juncture. 

Foggy hesitated, and then slid the first aid kit closer to Matt. He protectively watched him work; Matt certainly did appear to be an expert. Foggy grew increasingly queasy, however, as he watched the needle force its way through Matt’s already inflamed skin. “Do you have anything to drink?” He suddenly blurted, a little too loudly. 

Matt nodded softly. “Beer in the fridge…” 

“Okay, I’ll… I’ll leave you to this and be right back.” When he was away from Matt he took a few deep breaths to calm his swimming head, and then searched the fridge for a beer. Even if he wasn’t supervising Matt he made sure to sporadically glance over and monitor him until he was finished stitching up the cut. 

“All set?” Foggy called, and he could see Matt smirking at his uneasiness. 

“Yeah, it’s safe now,” answered Matt. For a moment Foggy was relieved that Matt was starting to sound like his old self again, but alarm bells began to sound in the corner of his mind. Perhaps Matt was just slipping back into his well-worn mask of normalcy… this whole thing… there was no way he could recover that quickly. He resolved that he wouldn’t let Matt slip back into his pretend “normal”, no way in hell. Matt had shown him the horrible truth, the reality of his mental state, and he wouldn’t let him force Foggy back out. 

“Matt…” Foggy said as he approached the man again and planted himself right in front of him. Matt’s ears pricked at the sudden seriousness in his voice. “you really terrify me, buddy. Sometimes I….” he trailed off, and Matt could feel him shrug. 

“I know, Foggy.” Matt whispered. “I’m sorry.” He reached out tentatively, fingers briefly skating on the hard floor, until they came to rest gently on Foggy’s hand. “I’m sorry.” He said again, this time even quieter, hoping like hell he could control his emotions as his bottom lip threatened a twitch. He pursed his lips in a tight line and looked down. 

“I just wish…” Foggy took a deep breath and Matt could hear his voice thickening in his throat, “that I could help you, somehow. You know?” he exhaled quickly, hotly. 

“You do. Foggy. You help me every day.” Matt’s throat was dry. “You – and Karen- you two are the only things I have that…” his bottom lip was trembling actively now, and he bit it to will it to stop, “That keep me sane anymore.” 

Foggy blinked. _I should have known_ , he suddenly thought to himself, a heavy guilt washing over him. He was Matt’s best friend; he knew he was the only person that Matt had in the world. _I should have known something was wrong, I should have been more observant. I should have helped him sooner._

“Without you- I’d probably be dead, Foggy.” Matt tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, turning into a squashed sob. 

Foggy’s chin couldn’t help but tremble now as well, his eyes tingling wet and heavy. He tried to calm himself for Matt’s sake. 

“And I’m…I…” The corners of Matt’s mouth pulled downward as he pushed onward. “I’m sorry that I…how it can be so difficult to be a f-friend-“ Matt finally gave up talking and let his head drop, attempting to take a slow deep breath but failing, hot tears streaming down his cheeks. 

Foggy quickly scooted up to his friend, wrapping his arms tightly around Matt’s shoulders and pulling him in close. Matt shivered in his arms as he tried to continue fighting against the full, ugly extent of his tears. With each rapid exhale came a pathetic whimper that tore Foggy up inside. “Jesus, buddy, you’re killing me here…” Foggy sniffled, screwing his eyes shut tight and squeezing Matt even tighter, rhythmically massaging his back in circles to comfort him. Matt just nodded, he was afraid to say anymore and lose control. 

They sat like that for several minutes, until Foggy could feel Matt relaxing and his breathing became closer to normal. Once Matt felt he was back in control of himself he pulled back from Foggy, looking away, ashamed. He rubbed his eyes on his forearm, his unfocused gaze at the corner of the room. Foggy recognized this body language, Matt was trying to close him out yet again. 

“Talk to me, Matt.” Foggy whispered. “You need to talk to me. To _someone_. You’re allowed to be human. To be vulnerable and _normal_.” 

“I’m not- I’m not normal, Foggy…” Matt took a deep, shaky breath. He sounded exhausted, looked depleted. “I don’t think I can be.” 

“Okay, well, maybe you aren’t normal. So what? You don’t have to be miserable, at least. You can’t possibly believe that’s “God’s plan” for you, or whatever! That it’s your “destiny” to suffer…” 

Matt didn’t answer, he wasn’t sure how to. Once again, there was silence. Foggy hoped, _prayed_ that Matt would talk to him. About anything, really. Anything important to him. He just wanted to help the man.

“I don’t…” Matt spoke so quietly that Foggy had to lean in again to hear him. He did so cautiously, as if Matt might run like a feral cat. Then he waited. Matt could hear Foggy’s heart racing. 

“If I’m not…. if I can’t be Daredevil… then who… who the hell am I Foggy?” Matt’s voice shook, and his shoulders slumped forward. He glanced up in Foggy’s direction, his eyes glistening and frightened. “I don’t know who the fuck I am.” He sputtered, and then, finally, he did let himself cry. He dropped his head into his hands and his shoulders shook with each silent, smothered sob. Foggy reached for him once again, and Matt buried his head into Foggy’s neck.

“ _Matty…_ ” Foggy whispered into his hair, now rubbing his back aggressively. “You’re just…you. You’re Matthew Murdock. I’ve known you since before you were… Daredevil.” He swallowed the moniker as he said it, beginning to look on the alter ego with disdain. “I know you. You’re sweet and kind-hearted, and smart as fuck, and one of the only people I know who actually cares about other people. Hell, you care too much, I’d say. You’ve sacrificed everything for everybody else... you just forgot to leave a little something for yourself…” He found himself nuzzling Matt’s jaw, the rough stubble scratching against his own. Before he thought too much about it, he placed a small, soft kiss just below Matt’s ear. 

Matt nuzzled him back, his tears subsiding as Foggy spoke. His cheek grazed Foggy’s as he turned to face him, and then he gingerly kissed Foggy’s chin, then the edge of his bottom lip, and then his entire mouth. Foggy caught the kiss with his own lips, allowing it to grow deeper and heavier. Matt’s lips were warm and wet, salty from his tears, and Foggy’s heart raced, his mind briefly wondering at how the kiss could feel so damn right when they’d never done anything like that before. 

“Matt...” He whispered as he gently broke from his best friend’s mouth, “I would love nothing more than to… but… I just don’t think it’s a good idea right _now_ …” He placed his forehead against Matt’s and soothingly rubbed his earlobe. “Don’t want you to regret anything…” he sighed. Matt had practically melted into his lap, and Foggy had to admit that he was having a hard time restraining _all_ of the dirty thoughts ghosting through his mind. 

“Come to bed with me.” Matt suddenly muttered, and Foggy’s heart skipped a beat, his body briefly shivering. He couldn’t deny that those words alone on Matt’s lips sent shockwaves to his groin, when he was already trying to overlook Matt’s warm weight in his lap. 

“I…Wow…” Foggy laughed nervously, “That’s… that’s a really sexy thing, that you just said… but…”

“ Foggy… please. We don’t have to…nothing has to happen. I just… I need you to stay. Please.” Matt sighed shakily. “Please.” He repeated, putting his hand on the back of Foggy’s neck, their foreheads still pressed together. 

Foggy nodded. How the hell could anyone say no? “Okay, buddy. I’ll stay.” Matt gave the back of Foggy’s neck a light squeeze, wordlessly thanking him. They sat like that for another minute, and then Foggy helped Matt to his feet and into his bedroom. 

He took comfort in the fact that at least while Matt slept he couldn’t do himself any harm, and he certainly looked like he needed to sleep badly, his eyes red-rimmed. Matt fell asleep quickly, his breath slowing and steadying, and Foggy took care while climbing into the bed next to him. He had no idea where to go from there… should he get Matt counseling? Did counseling even work? Of course, if he did try that he’d have to drag Matt to his first appointment, which was largely impossible. 

Foggy gazed at the back of Matt’s neck, and then his broad shoulders. He thought of the events of the evening, of the pain in Matt’s face and voice. Not the physical pain, of course, that never seemed to faze him for long. It was that emotional pain that Matt couldn’t seem to deal with. He hurt for Matt, wanted to take some of the pain from him if he could, but he could never know what it really felt like to be Matt Murdock.

He then pressed his lips lightly onto the back of Matt’s neck, mentally willing him to come out of all this okay. Willing him to be happy again. The thought occurred to him, though, that Matt may have never actually been happy. Back in college, maybe even then Matt had suffered, though quietly to himself. Maybe this had all been a slow build, the result of years and years of Matt denying himself.

Foggy thought of his friend’s inviting smile, of his warming laugh. Matt had so much spirit, something unspeakably wonderful in him. If that were ever to disappear…god help the world. God help Foggy. Now, his eyes also grew heavy, coaxed to sleep by the beer, the soft bed, and the warm body next to him. He resolved to form a plan of action in the morning, whatever it may be.

~~~

When Foggy awoke, Matt was facing him, still asleep. He blushed almost instantly; not only were their legs tangled, but Matt’s thigh pressed obscenely in between Foggy’s, and he realized shortly after that he was hard. His body had betrayed him; in his mind this had to be one of the top five worse times for morning wood. Worst of all, it felt good, having Matt’s warm leg there, looking into Matt’s absurdly beautiful face that really only looked even more beautiful when he slept. 

He thought of the night before, of the kiss they shared. It had to just be a fluke, something odd that happens between two friends during an episode of adversity. He highly doubted that Matt would _actually_ be interested in him. 

The kiss, though, it felt good. _So right_. Matt didn’t even have to be moving, right then, just Foggy’s knowledge of the placement of his leg was enough to cause him to twitch in his pants. He took a slow steady breath and started to slide back from Matt, the friction of extracting himself from the man’s leg causing even more blood flow to his groin. 

Finally, he successfully removed himself from the bed, causing Matt to only stir lightly and then roll over. Matt was usually such a light sleeper, Foggy couldn’t help but wonder how long it had been since Matt had actually slept. 

Foggy figured he had to be a pervert if he was going to sneak into his depressed friend’s bathroom and jerk off just because the other had unwittingly given him a boner, though he was ashamed to admit that a part of him had considered it. Instead he quietly walked into Matt’s living room and sat down on the couch, resolving to hatch his plan for Matt’s rescue until the man awoke.

Even with a refreshed brain, he still didn’t know what the hell to do. He couldn’t imagine Matt talking to a therapist. He didn’t know if he even wanted to trust some stranger with Matt’s mental health. He listened for any movements from Matt in the bedroom while he reflected, slightly apprehensive over what sort of mental state he would be in when he awoke. 

There was really only one solution that he was sure of, no matter how he turned the problem over in his head. Matt could _not_ be left alone in his apartment, he would have to somehow convince the man to stay with him for the weekend, at least. Then, he would go from there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title taken from "Jesus Christ" by Brand New, as are lyrics at beginning.


	3. It'll be Easy to Cover, Gather my Skeletons Far Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy sighed, pushed his hair up out of his face. “Matt, we were roommates for years, how is this any different?”
> 
>  _Because I need a place to hide_ , thought Matt. 
> 
> Foggy was clearly growing perturbed by the other man’s silence. “Did you already forget what happened last night? Do you need me to remind you?” he pleaded as he grabbed up the towel from the sink and flung it at Matt. Matt caught it and pinched the slubbed fabric between his fingers, feeling the clumped blood that was now dry. 
> 
> “Are you trying to tell me that _that’s fine?_ ”

_"I'm having trouble inside my skin_  
_I try to keep my skeletons in_  
_I'll be a friend and a fuck-up_  
_And everything_  
_But I'll never be_  
_Anything you ever want me to be_

_I keep coming back here where everything slipped_  
_But I will not spill my guts out_  
_I keep coming back here where everything slipped_  
_But I will not spill my guts out..."_

 

Foggy browsed the pantries and the fridge for anything that could be construed as breakfast, but he didn’t have much luck. There were some soup cans, a box of pancake mix that expired two years before. He briefly wondered what Matt did when it came to expired foods; did he go by smell? It’s not like he could read the stamp. He tossed the box in the garbage. In the fridge was milk, leftover Thai, beer, and a box of baking soda. _Leave it to Matt to be most concerned with preventing strange smells_ , thought Foggy. 

When Matt awoke he was as quiet as ever. He entered the living room sheepishly, wordlessly, save for an awkward hello. Foggy was considerate, gentle, all the things that made Matt squirm when he just wanted to blend in with the wallpaper. 

“I’ve been thinking, Matt, and I think maybe you should stay with me for a little while.” announced Foggy. 

“ _No._ ” Matt sternly objected. “No, Foggy, I’m going to be fine I just… I just lost it, a little. I’m okay here.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me? Either your lying to me, or your lying to yourself, buddy. Whichever it is, it isn’t a good thing.” Foggy barked. Matt’s lack of self-awareness continued to leave him reeling. 

Matt didn’t respond, he just rocked lightly on his feet as if to illustrate that he was planting himself firm. He imagined staying with Foggy would be like sitting under a spotlight, like being stretched out on a metal table. Suffocating, exposed. He hadn’t been able to muster even a _thread_ of control over the intense attack he had at the office, what would he do if it happened again and there was nowhere to run?

Foggy sighed, pushed his hair up out of his face. “Matt, we were roommates for years, how is this any different?”

 _Because I need a place to hide_ , thought Matt. 

Foggy was clearly growing perturbed by the other man’s silence. “Did you already forget what happened last night? Do you need me to remind you?” he pleaded as he grabbed up the towel from the sink and flung it at Matt. Matt caught it and pinched the slubbed fabric between his fingers, feeling the clumped blood that was now dry. 

“Are you trying to tell me that _that’s fine_?” 

Of course it wasn’t fine; Matt knew that. But he needed to be able to be alone. He needed to be able to fall apart quietly, if that’s where he was headed. Like a dog finding a corner to die in. 

Foggy watched Matt, watched his large vacuous eyes as he continued to keep to himself. He could see the concern fresh in his friend's face, fear kicking up like a storm. “Just for the weekend Matt, how about that? Tonight and Tomorrow.” Foggy said, softening. 

Matt licked his lips anxiously. The night before, hell, he had made so many mistakes. He had inadvertently let someone _see him_ , had let Foggy see what he truly was. Then, of course, he had also kissed Foggy, clung to him so desperately that his ears burned red even as he revisited the memory. _Pathetic_ , he thought, the black ink-like hatred for himself swirling deeper and deeper. 

He would do this, he _had_ to do this because he needed to ease his friend’s mind. He couldn’t afford to have Foggy examining him so closely, wasn’t sure if he could handle it. He felt the strongest urge to tuck inward, to cocoon himself. This, he was convinced, was the only way that he could retain any remaining slice of sanity. 

Just the weekend, he could do that. “Just for the weekend…” Matt echoed, giving in. He could almost feel Foggy relax from across the room.

~~~

“Well, you’ve been here before, you know where everything is.” said Foggy as he walked into the apartment, Matt following behind. Matt’s footsteps slowed as he entered, and then ceased completely when he parked himself just about ten feet past the threshold. He was certainly familiar with Foggy’s place, but the whole atmosphere was taking on a new aura now that he would be staying for the next couple of days. The smells, the sounds of coughing and laughing in other apartment rooms. His pulse was increasing steadily. 

Foggy’s eyes were stuck on Matt as he went to shut the door himself, and he took a moment to study the back of Matt’s head after he did. “Everything okay?” he asked. 

“Yeah.” Matt lied. So many people lived in Foggy’s building… how had he not noticed before? He could smell pasta cooking on the floor below, mildew coming from the air vents. Children were laughing a few rooms down, and he was positively surrounded by the buzzing of televisions. Perfume. Laundry detergent. Cat hair. Dust, and vinegar cleaner. 

His body forced a breath as his pulse quickened, his head briefly reeling. “Uh- where’s the bathroom again?” Matt asked, a sickening twist tugging at the back of his throat. 

“Um… right through here,” Foggy instructed as he gently led him by the elbow down a hallway. He even opened the door for him, which in Matt’s mind was an odd thing to do. Foggy had known for several months now that he was actually quite skilled at navigating spaces. 

As soon as Foggy shut the door Matt was feeling for the sink. He sipped water from his hand but it tasted like copper, and so he spat it back out. He let the water run, though, the sound of it grounding. Matt rested his forehead on his hands at the edge of the sink basin, doing his best to regain his composure. How the hell was he going to make it through the weekend if five minutes in he was already cracking? 

He took a series of deep but hasty breaths, and his head reeled again, blurring and spinning as blood relocated itself through his veins, raced inside his body. He forced himself to take a slower, deeper breath, focused on the oxygen as it inflated his diaphragm. His nails were digging into the back of his hand, digging and pinching at the skin there. 

It was distraction enough that he felt his racing heart begin to lull, and he was able to swallow back the thick queasiness. Another deep breath, another etch with his thumbnail across his hand. 

There was a knock at the door. “Matt, you okay?” called Foggy. 

He shut off the water and exited the bathroom. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

Foggy’s silence made it clear that he didn’t believe him. His eyes were roving, searching for damage. Matt could hear the beginning of words on the tip of Foggy’s lips, that he wanted to ask _did you hurt yourself_ , but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. 

Instead, he just sighed. “Okay. Well… you hungry? I was thinking about making something to eat.” 

“No, I… I’m not really hungry.” said Matt. He couldn’t imagine forcing himself to eat around the desperate tension simmering in his gut. He could tell that Foggy was disappointed with his response, though. 

“Yeah? Well… you should probably try to eat something at some point. Maybe later?” Foggy winced out. 

Matt just nodded. Maybe later he could stomach a little food for Foggy’s sake.

~~~

There was no sleeping here. 

Matt scraped his fingertips over the stitches of his latest cut, nails grinding through the fabric of his pants. It was a sharp prick, a small assemblage of shocks to the raw nerves there. It was comforting, in a way. He also took comfort in the fact that he could definitely hear Foggy sleeping in the other room, at least then he could bask in some semblance of seclusion. 

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t sleep, he just had to wait this whole thing out. 

Foggy had made him soup for dinner, chicken and rice, which Matt did find somewhat palatable at the time, even if it was condensed and chock full of salt and chemical preservatives. Sipping the warm broth was still calming, and it made Foggy feel better that he had eaten something, even if he couldn’t bring himself to chew up and swallow the alleged pieces of chicken. Foggy had also insisted that Matt take his bed and that he would sleep on the couch, but Matt insisted that he couldn’t do that. His goal was to take up as little space as possible.

Matt was guilt-ridden over the level of exhaustion already present in Foggy’s voice, though because of that exhaustion he didn’t fight Matt for long on the subject of who sleeps where. He dug out his softest blankets and set up a place for Matt on the couch, lingering just a tad too long before finally retiring to his bedroom. 

“Goodnight, Matt…” Foggy sighed from the bedroom doorway, and Matt loathed the concern in his voice. 

“Goodnight,” Matt muttered back, though he truly wanted to shout, _I’M FINE_. He knew that such a thing would probably be more disturbing than reassuring to Foggy, though. 

Matt did try to sleep, thought maybe he could if he could just focus hard enough on tuning out all the excess noise. The longer he laid there, however, the more his skin began to twitch, his brain broiling with reckless thoughts. Ultimately he got back out of the makeshift bed and sat by the window, his back pressed against the cool glass pane. 

He sat there for hours, listening to everything that he could pick up. Most people were asleep, a queasy ruckus of rasped breathing, wheezing and choking. There were traces of electricity throughout the building, televisions on mute, radios playing softly. A child cried in his parents’ bedroom two floors down. It was better to focus on any of this then on his own self, his own thoughts that were endlessly dark and twisting, whispering his own indiscretions to him. 

He wanted to go out and make someone bleed. He wanted to hear the crunch of delicate bones and cartilage in someone else’s nose, feel the deep ache of blunt force to his own ribcage. But he had to stay there. If Foggy were to wake up and find him gone than that would set Matt back even further with his best friend. 

He had to at least feign normalcy for Foggy’s sake, because truthfully he was terrified of losing the man. He had meant it when he told Foggy that he was the only thing that kept him sane; without Foggy’s friendship, without Nelson and Murdock, he was convinced that he would be more animal than human. He would be too far gone. 

And when he kissed Foggy, even _if_ he wasn’t in his right mind, well he had meant that too. He wasn’t sure if Foggy’s words were honest or not, he had been far too distracted to analyze the man’s heartbeat. He also wasn’t sure if Foggy kissed him back out of pity or actual want, and he was afraid to test the waters again. 

It didn’t matter, anyways, because no one in hell should ever have to be tethered romantically to Matt Murdock. It was a death sentence, as far as he was concerned. _At the very least_ a ticket for certain unhappiness and unwavering disappointment. 

Foggy woke up early and exited his bedroom to find Matt still sitting in front of the window, still thinking. “Did you sleep at all?” he asked, his voice rich with unpleasant sympathy. 

“A little,” Matt lied. His eyes felt dry and thick. 

Foggy hesitated, shifting on his feet, and then offered, “How about I make us a little breakfast? You like eggs, right?” 

Matt wanted to say no, but he nodded anyway. He could probably choke down a little breakfast to make up for the fact that Foggy found disappointment in his lack of sleep. 

~~~

It was one day down, then, one to go.

Foggy knew that Matt was picky about foods, especially the chemical-laden stuff. He knew that Matt hadn’t really been too fond of the soup he made the night before, even if he didn’t vocalize his distaste. He certainly hadn’t been stealthy about it by leaving all the little gray chicken pieces at the bottom of his bowl. 

So Foggy took a quick glance through his fridge and then decided that it might be a good idea to run to the store and pick up a few things that would better coax Matt into eating. He would have to drag Matt along, though. 

Matt seemed hesitant, but he didn’t ask to stay behind. It was unusually brisk for early fall, the first day of the season in which Foggy could see a rush of breath in the morning air. Matt hadn’t really packed accordingly, but he seemed fine in his black sweater. As they walked, Foggy couldn’t help but glance over at the man and admire how dashing he looked in black; it was a small detail about him that Foggy had noticed early on in their friendship and yet always marveled at, even years later. 

In the store Matt was unusually quiet, even for himself. He silently trailed just a step behind Foggy as he shopped, wordless. In between browsing the shelves Foggy would glance over at Matt to keep tabs on him, as if he were shopping with a small child. Foggy watched Matt as his hands twisted on the top of his walking stick. Had he always done that, or was that something new, a sign that he was uneasy there in the store? And what the hell did the man think of to himself for hours on end? 

“So, I’m just going to come out and say this, but you’ve been really quiet and it’s starting to freak me out a little.” Foggy stated over his shoulder. 

“Sorry…” Matt mumbled. 

“You don’t have to be sorry, Matt. I just kind of feel like you’re waiting this whole situation out to make _me_ happy, or something. I feel like your shutting down, shutting me out. You don’t have to do that, you know.” Foggy spoke quietly as he read over the ingredients on the back of a soup can in his hand. He watched out of the corner of his eye as Matt nodded softly. 

Foggy decided on organic soups, figuring that would be as suitable as anything. He grabbed other things he thought Matt might give into eating; mashed potatoes, yogurt, some fresh fruit and vegetables.

The woman behind the register had a smile that lingered for Matt, though it was fairly obvious that he was blind. Perhaps she had noticed, but just found him attractive. Regardless, Foggy smiled back at her for Matt’s sake. In the past he would have informed Matt about it in the parking lot, told him how the cute cashier had been checking him out, but after the kiss they shared the other night it felt like an odd thing to bring up. 

By the evening, Foggy had noticed an exponential decline in Matt’s demeanor, low though it already had been. He became restless, squirmy in his seat. It was as if an invisible electricity was working itself up around him, tormenting him. He would exhale sharply, wet his lips until they were red. 

When Matt went to take a shower Foggy wanted so badly to follow him in and keep an eye on him, though he knew that would definitely be a step too far. He was trying his best to find the balance between looking out for Matt and pushing him over the edge. He knew Matt wasn’t all too comfortable with attention even on a normal day. 

Matt soaped up briefly, and then spent the rest of his shower standing under the water. He was tired, immensely so, and yet also uncomfortable in his skin. He felt tight inside, his muscles prickly and twitching. He craved relief. 

_He would not do this at Foggy’s. He would not do this at Foggy’s._ Matt repeated the mantra in his mind, utterly disgusted with himself and yet also wishing that he could be at home alone so it wouldn’t matter anyways. 

It was just one more night. If he couldn’t make it one more night, well, then he was genuinely afraid of what that meant for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics at beginning from "Slipped" by the National.


	4. My Body is a Cage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t know what to do…” Foggy said again, studying Matt. Matt had a weird look on his face, one that was almost blank, shell-like. A heavy silence filled the room on the heels of his words, ringing in Foggy’s ears. He sighed, his shoulders slumped. Just like that, Matt had shut him out again.
> 
> “I… I’m going to go to bed…” Foggy said feebly. “You… sleep if you want, I guess.”
> 
> Matt stayed put for a good hour on the floor, listening as Foggy pretended that he had fallen back to sleep. His breath made it clear that he hadn’t. Finally, Matt dressed and left, hoping like hell that Foggy wouldn’t follow after him. He didn’t, though Matt thought he might have heard Foggy pacing his apartment once he reached the second floor of the stairwell.

_“I'm living in an age_  
_That calls darkness light_  
_Though my language is dead_  
_Still the shapes fill my head_

_I'm living in an age_  
_Whose name I don't know_  
_Though the fear keeps me moving_  
_Still my heart beats so slow_

_My body is a cage that keeps me_  
_From dancing with the one I love_  
_But my mind holds the key_

_You're standing next to me_  
_My mind holds the key_  
_My body is a…_

_My body is a cage_  
_We take what we're given_  
_Just because you've forgotten_  
_That don't mean you're forgiven_

_I'm living in an age_  
_That screams my name at night_  
_But when I get to the doorway_  
_There's no one in sight…”_

 

Long after Foggy had gone to bed, Matt was still awake, manic, fighting the good fight for his sanity. He paced the living room as carefully as possible, wearing a narrow track into the wood below his bare feet. Stick’s voice reverberated through his head, often intertwining with his own when he was seeking self-discipline. _Come on, Matty, have some fuckin’ self-control, for Christ’s sake_. Matt growled to himself, his fists wrapped tight, nails throbbing into the palms of his hands like he was ready for a fight. 

There was no outfighting his own inner wrath, though. _Pussy_ , Stick spat. _I expected too much of you_. Matt charged the kitchen, seeking out the scent of tarnished metal. Foggy’s knives were old, over-sharpened to flimsy pitted edges. Matt’s thumb dragged down the edge; less bite than a butter knife. 

_He would not do this at Foggy’s_ , he told himself again. He just needed a moment to catch his breath, to sort through his racing thoughts. If he could just grasp hold of a moment, focus on it, take a deep enough breath, then maybe he could catch up with himself. But his fingertips were beginning to tremble then, and an undefinable icy fear was filtering through him. 

With the knife handle still clutched in his fist he sunk down to the floor behind the counter. _Out of sight, out of mind_ , his inner voice heckled, and it was a phrase that, plainly speaking, was just a bit too appropriate for Matt Murdock at the moment. He attempted a breathy laugh in spite of himself, only to find that the panic rushed in to fill the air pockets left behind inside of him. 

He thought of how just after the accident he would occasionally sit in his closet, hoping to god that it would muffle the unpredictable noises that would suddenly assault him. Like a bunker. His dad had found him in there once; There was concern, of course, but his dad never liked to talk about what was going on with Matt for long. Now Matt knew that it was probably fear, fear of what he would learn and what he ultimately wouldn’t be able to do about it. 

He imagined his father seeing him now, standing over him, looking down, watching him unravel like a coward. The look of shock in his eyes, similar to the day of the accident, the last expression he would ever see. Forever imprinted. Maybe he never truly had control. How had he controlled himself, in the past? Tonight he couldn’t remember what that felt like, to have a good grip on his own peace of mind. Had he ever had that? 

_Get it together, Murdock_. It was his voice, now. His voice, and then Stick’s, and then his dad’s. _Get it together, Murdock!_ He cocked his chin and exhaled sharply, as if he had just taken a punch. Or, maybe, he was just about to throw one. 

Matt pressed the dull blade against the palm of his hand, trying to infuse all of his senses into that cool weight. Its tangibility was real; it would not change or escape him. He scraped it lightly against the thin skin inside his hand, just a touch, not yet intending harm. He just wanted to focus on it, on the sweeping emphasis of it sawing back and forth, tangible and real. 

Goosebumps were rippling over his back and shoulders in waves, moving over him as imaginary air currents. He bit inside his cheek, breath escaping through his nose rapidly, erratically, no longer trying to do his best to steady it. Finally, he turned the knife on its head, centered perfectly in the palm of his hand, just on the verge of puncture. The thoughts, the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs all pulsed through him like a sweeping pendulum, sweeping just overhead. Like the axe waiting to fall. 

Matt gritted his teeth and pushed in, testing himself, testing how far he could get before he would surrender. Suddenly, the most important thing was knowing how far he _would_ go against himself, how much he could take if he was the one doling out the punishment. He needed to know, most of all, that he wouldn’t go easy on himself. 

But then there were footsteps, just as those first blooms of blood began to break through to the surface.

“Matt!... _what the hell?_ ” Foggy choked. Matt dropped the knife instantly, heard it clatter on the tile below, his eyes wide and his mind screaming. How the hell had he not heard the other man stirring, walking, leaving his bedroom?

He instinctively pressed his hand to the cold tile below, as if he could still save this situation. He had no way of knowing how dark it was in there, whether or not Foggy had turned on the light, leaving him exposed and illuminated. So, Matt just panted like a rabbit, his teeth chattering, all the while hating his body for it. _Normal, appear normal_. Fuck, what did normal even look like?

“You fucking cut yourself, didn’t you, Matt?” Foggy exclaimed, his voice towering over him. 

Matt didn’t want to lie to Foggy; Foggy had already begged for honesty after he found out about Matt’s identity as Daredevil. So, he chose not to answer the question and instead awaited the impending hurricane. “I couldn’t sleep.” he muttered. 

“ _Jesus Christ Matt_ ,” Foggy hissed, desperately raking his fingers through his hair and doubling over as if Matt had hit him in the gut. “You… you need help. You’re fucking…” 

He didn’t finish his sentence, but Matt knew what Foggy wanted to say. _Crazy. Fucking insane_. “I’m sorry, Foggy,” Matt whispered, panic rising in his throat. 

Matt hadn’t been sure how long he could feign normalcy for Foggy’s sake, but that hadn’t lasted very long at all. He had hoped that he could clutch on to the man for at least a little while longer, for as long as he possibly could, and maybe that had been selfish of him. But, now, Foggy _had_ to be done with him. He didn’t blame him if he was.

“Don’t… don’t say you’re sorry… _goddammit!_ ” Foggy gritted, his eyes pinched shut. “This... this is bad…” he then whispered to himself. “I don’t know what I thought I was expecting… as if I could just babysit you for a couple of days and suddenly you’d be better. What the hell was I thinking? You clearly need some _real_ help… and I don’t know what to do, Matt!”

And suddenly, Matt was quiet. All the tension left his face, his eyes deep and hollow. Yes, this was it. Foggy had showed an immense amount of patience for him over the years, more so than anyone he’d ever known. But everyone had to have their limits, and frankly, he didn’t blame the man in the least for having more than his fill. Who would willingly subject themselves to this?

“I don’t know what to do…” Foggy said again, studying Matt. Matt had a weird look on his face, one that was almost blank, shell-like. A heavy silence filled the room on the heels of his words, ringing in Foggy’s ears. He sighed, his shoulders slumped. Just like that, Matt had shut him out again. 

“I… I’m going to go to bed…” Foggy said feebly. “You… sleep if you want, I guess.” 

Matt stayed put for a good hour on the floor, listening as Foggy pretended that he had fallen back to sleep. His breath made it clear that he hadn’t. Finally, Matt dressed and left, hoping like hell that Foggy wouldn’t follow after him. He didn’t, though Matt thought he might have heard Foggy pacing his apartment once he reached the second floor of the stairwell. 

~~~

When Matt returned home he sat on his bed, waited until his alarm clock went off for work. Right on schedule he showered and dressed, determined to go into the office though he wasn’t sure there was any real point to it. He was determined to hold onto the dangerously thin, gauzy fabric of the normal life he had constructed until anyone and everyone told him to give up, go home, _we don’t want you here anymore, you are not one of us._

He was the first into the office, tired and spacy as he passed the threshold, exhaling the stale remnants of old coffee eternally wafting off of the indoor-outdoor rug just inside the entrance. In the back of his mind he couldn’t see either Foggy or Karen coming in; the events from the night before had been the kill switch. Karen would just somehow know that Foggy now knew he was crazy, everybody would just know. And then, they would all be gone, evaporating into thin air as if the rapture had occurred. 

People typically left in a hurry, anyways. Either they died suddenly, their bodies left behind, or, you would be talking to them, counting on them being behind you, and then you would turn and they were nowhere to be found. Nobody left slowly, gradually, giving you time to adjust to their departure. 

But Karen did come in about fifteen minutes later, greeting Matt like she hadn’t gotten the memo that he had lost it. So it seems the charade would continue, there was at least one more day in it. She made more coffee to add to the stench, a morning ritual. 

Foggy came in last, later than normal as if he had debated it. His footsteps were heavy and tired, and Matt didn’t dare leave his desk to confront or engage the man. Foggy, likewise, didn’t acknowledge Matt. 

Matt tried so hard to focus, but he found himself focusing on the wrong things; the sound of Karen’s heel tips on tile as she shifted in her seat; the curious, almost feather-like porosity of wood pulp pressed into paper as he dragged his thumbprint across its surface; the unsettling pull of electricity from Foggy’s fluorescent lights in the other room. 

The office was quieter than normal, and Matt was thankful for it. At one point Karen attempted to talk to Foggy about Matt in his office, her voice low and quiet, but Foggy shushed her vehemently, knowing that Matt could hear it all. Throughout the day Foggy would occasionally stack papers, straightening them on the desk with a firm tap, but his rustlings were lesser than usual. And, he sighed constantly, like he couldn’t keep up with his own breath. 

This… this was for the best. Matt had been selfish, really, clinging to Foggy for so long. But what did this mean for _life_ now? He doubted he could continue working next to Foggy and keep him from getting pulled into the current. More and more, the evidence seemed to be piling up that Matt was indeed best left alone. But if Nelson and Murdock was better off without him, and Hell’s Kitchen didn’t need him… that he was afraid to consider.

After a day of what felt like waiting, Matt stood behind his desk, putting his weight on his hands, wondering if he needed to bring anything home. He was ashamed that he felt so lost in his own work, what was supposed to be his _real_ work. There must be paperwork to do… but he couldn’t seem to dredge up a logical train of thought. A dense cloud was successfully engulfing him, clouding the sharpness of his senses.

Karen was saying goodbye to Foggy in the other room, giving her usual _see you bright and early_ , weary though it was beginning to sound. She stopped at Matt’s door as well, hand softly on the frame, and bade him a cautiously kind goodnight.

As soon as Karen left, though, Foggy was rushing Matt’s office.

“Alright, Matt. I’ve been thinking about it all day, and this is what I’ve decided. It was dumb of me to expect you to just get better over one weekend… I shouldn’t have put so much pressure on you. But… I need you to do your damn best to not shut me out anymore. Okay? It’s not going to be easy, but I think that if you actually _let_ me help you instead of turning into a zombie when I talk to you then maybe you’ll be okay. Maybe. So… what I’m trying to say is I really, truly think it would be best if you stay with me for longer than just a couple of days. As long as it takes, okay?” 

Matt was silent, motionless like a small frightened animal. He looked positively confounded… or, perhaps frozen in panic. Foggy wasn’t sure which, and so he felt compelled to continue. “Fine, I’ll move in with you, then. Whatever it takes, for as long as it takes. But I am not going to just let you sit and wallow in your own self-hatred any more, Matt, so you can forget about that!” 

Matt’s lips parted breathlessly as he listened to Foggy, his ears and cheeks flushing and his heartbeat fluttering sporadically. Suddenly, he closed the gap between them, twisting his fingers into Foggy’s lapel, smashing his lips violently into Foggy’s until they separated in surrender. Their hips clashed and Foggy was momentarily stunned; then he laced his fingers around the back of Matt’s neck and kissed him back, confused as hell but heart pounding. 

Foggy had expected a fight. This… this was astonishing, but hugely welcome. Even now Matt had a way of surprising him, sometimes horrifically, sometimes exquisitely. No matter which, no single person on the face of the earth moved him the way that Matt Murdock did. The man felt so intensely, so beautifully, so _painfully_. He was passion incarnate, in all of its forms, it’s delights and its downfalls. And Foggy couldn’t see himself ever leaving the man behind, even if that meant he had to drag him onward by the legs.

Matt didn’t know if there was any saving him, but he did know that Foggy always seemed to have his best interest in mind. He would try his hardest to trust in Foggy, wholeheartedly, for at least a little while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and song lyrics from "My Body is a Cage", by Arcade Fire. However, on a side note, I was more drawn to Peter Gabriel's version of the song in regards to this chapter.


	5. Pick the Stitches and Unbind Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy waited, desperately tried to strain his ears to see if he could somehow check on Matt without having to let him know he was doing so. The man was stealthy though, and the quiet started to play tricks on Foggy’s mind. He finally resolved to jump back out of bed, heaving an irritated sigh, and he wondered back into the living room just in time to see Matt peeling off the suit in the middle of his kitchen.
> 
> Foggy watched and waited silently, his arms folded in front of him. He was certain that Matt knew he was there, and yet neither of them said a word. Then Matt was standing there in nothing but his boxer briefs, waiting, it seemed, to be reproached.
> 
> He looked to be okay, overall, save for a split lip. Matt’s hair was damp and disheveled, his eyes still a little wild from the fight. His breath came out in short huffs, his tongue briefly swiping over the blood on his lip. It struck Foggy how primal he looked. Feral. He wasn’t sure if the sight left him repelled or aroused.

_“So talk, erase those worried eyes_  
_Lay your trouble out beside me, I'm sick_  
_And so I'll sympathize_  
_Leave it feeding there inside me_

_Oh take it out on me_  
_I'm in love with the feeling_  
_Oh take it out on me_  
_Maybe hooked on the healing_  
_Oh take it out on me_  
_I'm in love with the feeling of_  
_Being used_

_Dig deep where you're afraid to go_  
_Pick the stitches and unbind me_  
_That pain I need to know_  
_Every cut you feel defines me_

_Tell me, tell me_  
_Tell me what is going wrong_  
_Help me, help me_  
_Now the nights are getting long…”_

 

For as long as Matt could remember, his only true comfort zone was his ability to isolate himself. Since this was clearly no longer an option he felt it didn’t really matter whether or not he moved in with Foggy or vice versa. He was grateful to Foggy for sticking around, though, and so he wanted to make things as easy on his friend as possible. Thus, he agreed to move in to Foggy’s place. He truly didn’t want to; he felt that his sanity almost certainly depended on his seclusion. But he had told himself that he would let Foggy drive, if even for a little while, and so he would stick to that until it seemed perfectly impossible. His own way of doing things was clearly not working.

Matt didn’t want to make Foggy his savior, though. He was wary of relying on anyone for real, “dig-in-deep” help; a good Catholic boy kept his troubles to himself until confession, and then left the church with a sturdy face and a pocket full of hail Mary’s. 

Without even discussing it with each other, both Matt and Foggy came to the conclusion that they would not bring up their new living situation with Karen. The whole thing seemed both wholly necessary and yet embarrassing, uncomfortably new and also familiar. The fact that they had once shared a room now felt hazy and distant, like a memory of a dream. 

Then again, most things that took place pre-“Daredevil” did to Matt, as if he had been reborn on the night that he pummeled that disgusting child molester, sticky blood dripping from his taped fists. In Foggy’s mind it seemed as if there were two Matt’s in his life, as well. The soft-spoken geek he knew in college, and the dark-eyed vigilante that he worried about almost constantly. So, in some ways, he felt that he never _had_ shared a living space with this new Matt. 

Matt brought the suit, too, and though Foggy wasn’t pleased he knew he would be pushing his luck by mentioning it. He knew that Matt would never completely abandon his nighttime activities to focus on himself and his own mental health; the suit was like a security blanket of sorts, a way of escape. 

~~~

Foggy sat in the kitchen and stared over his cup of coffee at Matt, watched him sitting in the middle of his private darkness in the living room. _There he was again_ , Foggy thought, _so intensely focused on god knows what_. He hated the thought of pushing Matt into therapy, knew that the man would struggle with just the idea of sharing his demons with a perfect stranger. Unless it was his priest, of course. 

Still, he felt he had to try. “Matt…” Foggy began, attempting to hide his caution over the impending subject. The apprehension in Matt’s eyes when he lifted his head told Foggy he had failed, though. The man’s radar was impeccable. “I-I think it might be a good idea if you and I looked into getting you some counseling…” Foggy winced out his words, pausing, almost certain that Matt would fight him instantly. Hell, maybe even physically. 

Truthfully, Matt didn’t look pleased. But he didn’t look mad, either. He looked… terrified. Like he was paling before Foggy’s eyes. Foggy watched as he slowly started to shake his head. “I can’t… I can’t do that, Foggy.” Matt replied, quietly at first. “I can’t do that,” he said again, his head still shaking steadily. 

It was the response he had expected to at least some agree, yet he still hadn’t spent much time thinking ahead to his next plan of action. “Well, I mean… I don’t know anything about therapy, I’ve never been… but…what if it ends up being a good thing for you?” Foggy stumbled along, his voice straining awkwardly. 

“Well I _have_ had counseling before…” Matt stated, his eyes fixed intensely on the air between them. “I can’t...” 

Foggy’s shoulders slackened. “You have? When did this happen?” This was news to him. He always seemed to find himself on the fence of knowing either too much or very little about Matt Murdock. 

Matt sighed slowly, a forced exhale. The memories alone were enough to churn up a firestorm in his gut, let alone the idea of discussing them. But he had told himself he would trust in Foggy. “After- after my dad died. In the orphanage. They thought… they thought I was losing it. There was a counselor, a state employee. She visited me regularly for two months…” he forced out. 

“Oh…” said Foggy, unsure of what else to say. “…Didn’t help?” he asked with a nervous shrug. Even as he asked he was fairly certain of Matt’s answer, given his reluctance to ever speak to a therapist again.

“No.” Matt huffed. 

Foggy put his mug down and massaged his eyes. “Okay… well, maybe this time will be different? Help me out here at least a little, Matt…what happened, with the first counselor? What went wrong, exactly?”

“She wanted to have me committed.” Matt reported solemnly. “I heard her speaking to one of the nuns in the hallway. The loud noises… she thought it was some sort of psychosis. An early onset schizophrenia initiated by trauma. Back then, I didn’t know I shouldn’t be talking about it, about how I could _hear things_. I was… scared. I was just a stupid kid.”

Foggy just listened, afraid to interrupt the fact that Matt was actually _sharing_ something with him. The two of them rarely discussed his childhood, and when they did Matt was quick to steer the subject elsewhere. Foggy knew vague details about the accident, about his father’s murder, about the orphanage and Stick. Everything else was steeped in shadow. Matt had never even described the orphanage to him; Foggy had never even seen a picture of Matt as a child. 

Now his stomach dropped with each passing word, a gut wrenching image of a young Matt Murdock in his head, frightened and abandoned, blind, afraid of being hauled off to a mental institution. When Foggy was eleven his greatest tribulations consisted of math homework and whether or not he could outfight his siblings for the last piece of chicken at supper. 

“One day I told her,” Matt continued, “ _I know you want to send me away_ … but she just thought it was paranoia. Now, I shouted it in the middle of a panic attack, so I suppose that could come across as hysteric…” 

“Jesus, Matt…” Foggy breathed, positively aching in his chest, “What happened?” 

“That was just before Stick found me. In many ways…he saved my life.” Matt paused, his face now turned down towards his lap. “Therapy… it- it’s not for people like me, Foggy…” 

Foggy’s heart sank, but he decided that he would leave the subject alone for the time being. “Okay, buddy…” he responded softly. His urge to reach out to the man was so great that he found himself crossing the living room and bending over Matt, briefly supporting his head with one hand so that he could place a small, quick kiss on his temple. 

Then Foggy blinked, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m sorry…” he sputtered, “Was… was that okay? I don’t know why I did that.” 

“N-no, it’s okay… don’t worry about it, Foggy,” Matt blushed. 

There had been two recent occasions where they had shared a kiss, both meaningful and equally passionate, and yet they still had yet to discuss either instance. Both times it felt as if they had been pulled into a natural, inevitable current, and yet both times they came out the other side silent and reserved. Something had changed though; a floodgate had been opened and now a greater intimacy seemed to be crashing in. Still, it was all so sporadic, unplanned. 

Foggy nodded slowly, breathing deep; relieved, excited, and terrified of what this all meant for the two of them.

~~~

It became clear to Foggy early on that there were many things that distracted Matt from sleep, but one unavoidable culprit was the rain. Not just thunderstorms, which made the most sense; a good thunderstorm could even keep up an individual with normal hearing. 

Their first week together was saturated with chilled, autumn showers, and even those seemed to inhibit Matt’s sleep. Foggy left his bedroom one night to find Matt wide awake next to the kitchen window, listening closely even though it was shut tight. He had been so immersed in whatever, that he hadn’t caught Foggy leaving his bedroom. 

Finally, after a few more steps forward, Matt turned his head in Foggy’s direction, only slightly startled.

“What’s up, buddy? Can’t sleep?” Foggy asked, though somewhat nervously. 

Matt shrugged lightly. “It’s… hard to sleep, sometimes, when it rains…”

“Why’s that?” Foggy asked, walking up to the man and grabbing a seat up next to him. 

“Um… each raindrop makes a small, distinct sound, and it changes depending on what type of surface it’s hitting. I’ve always had a hard time tuning that out at night, when there’s nothing else to focus on.” 

“Wow…” Foggy breathed. “What does that sound like, all together?”

Matt appeared to be listening, then, analyzing the elusive noise that only he could hear. “Like the city is groaning.” he answered. 

“Creepy.” said Foggy, and Matt nodded in confirmation. 

~~~

About a week and a half into their new living arrangements Matt heard a woman’s scream in the middle of the night. His blood started to rush, his muscles tightened, and without hesitation he slipped into the armor and out into the city. 

Foggy didn’t even know Matt had left until he woke up around 2am and realized he was gone, including the suit. He stood helplessly by the kitchen window for several minutes before deciding to lie back down, a stubborn voice in the back of his head arguing that he didn’t want Matt to _know_ he was waiting up for him. He was enthusiastically relieved, however, when he heard the window slide back open some 45 minutes later. 

Foggy waited, desperately tried to strain his ears to see if he could somehow check on Matt without having to let him know he was doing so. The man was stealthy though, and the quiet started to play tricks on Foggy’s mind. He finally resolved to jump back out of bed, heaving an irritated sigh, and he wondered back into the living room just in time to see Matt peeling off the suit in the middle of his kitchen. 

Foggy watched and waited silently, his arms folded in front of him. He was certain that Matt knew he was there, and yet neither of them said a word. Then Matt was standing there in nothing but his boxer briefs, waiting, it seemed, to be reproached. 

He looked to be okay, overall, save for a split lip. Matt’s hair was damp and disheveled, his eyes still a little wild from the fight. His breath came out in short huffs, his tongue briefly swiping over the blood on his lip. It struck Foggy how primal he looked. Feral. He wasn’t sure if the sight left him repelled or aroused. 

It occurred to Foggy that he had never actually seen Matt right after a fight before, that is, unless he had been beaten half to hell. It truly brought the devil out in him, resurrected his shadows to the surface where they were exposed, honest and ugly. It was, in a way, a fearsome sight.

Sometimes there was something so animalistic about Matt… the way he cocked an ear to listen, the way he sniffed the air. Foggy had only previously noticed it in small glimpses in their “past life”, but now that he knew about Matt’s alter ego the man was giving him more and more glances of just how instinctual he was. 

Foggy finally stepped forward with caution and dampened a paper towel, attempting to dab at the blood on Matt’s chin. Matt wordlessly brushed off the attention, though, leaving him cold and wanting. 

~~~

Then, just the night after, Matt was standing in the doorway of Foggy’s bedroom during a thunderstorm. _“Foggy…”_ Matt’s voice rasped from the doorframe. He cautiously entered Foggy’s room, slowly approaching the bed where Foggy lay. 

Foggy had been awake, unable to sleep through the rumbling thunder. He had heard the mattress coils randomly squeak from the other room, knowing Matt had to be having a hard time sleeping as well. If a gentle rainstorm sounded like a groan than a thunderstorm had to sound like some sort of twelve-man bar brawl. Foggy lifted up onto his elbows, propping himself up to better see the well-chiseled, angular silhouette. “Yeah? Everything okay?” he asked groggily. 

Matt nodded first before he spoke again. He was so hesitant now, so timid. If he hadn’t had the solid muscle to prove otherwise he would have come across as a young child who had just suffered a nightmare. Matt just stood next to Foggy’s bed at first, beautiful and strong, half naked, in only his sweatpants. His hair was mussed from tossing and turning on the couch, and finally, he spoke up. “Please… please be patient with me…” he mumbled, oh so quietly. 

Foggy stared into what he could make out of the man’s eyes in the dark, and even if he knew Matt couldn’t see him he felt those eyes burning a hole in his chest where they rested. Foggy gently reached out. “C’mere, Matt…” he whispered, grasping the man’s hand in his and tugging lightly to encourage him to climb into the bed. It didn’t take more than a nudge for the man to oblige. 

Whether or not Matt wanted to be held, Foggy wasn’t sure. But he pulled the man’s solid frame in regardless, cradling his head with his arm and tucking him under his chin. _Whether he likes it or not he’s going to be held, damn it_ , Foggy thought to himself. 

Foggy awoke the next morning with Matt still pressed against him, fast asleep. For this, Foggy was thankful. It was silly when he considered it, the relief that came with Matt successfully accomplishing anything healthy or normal. It felt like another small step in the right direction, a sign that Foggy wasn’t fucking this up too much and it wasn’t _all futile_. 

For the past week and a half, on and off, Foggy had looked over to Matt and experienced two commonly occurring thoughts; _this is going to work_ , and _this is hopeless_. 

This morning felt like a good one, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics from "Take it Out on Me" by White Lies.


	6. Stick Me in My Heart so I Feel It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The three of us are kind of like a family, right? We help each other out.” said Foggy, not realizing that Matt had tuned him out. It was hard to tell through the dark glasses, but the look on Matt’s face was nearly blank, save for maybe just a tinge of distress. Foggy wasn’t sure if he was reading the man right or not, but it really looked as if he doubted what Foggy was saying was the honest-to-god truth.
> 
> Then it occurred to Foggy; when would Matt have even had the chance to learn about healthy friendships, let alone the dynamics of a family? His dad alone was problematic; Matt looked back with nostalgia on stitching up his own father’s cuts. He was actually proud that he had gotten so good at giving stitches at such an early age. His childhood memories, even the good ones, were _sad as fuck_ , the definition of cringe-worthy.

_Stick me in my heart…_

_Feeling you insane how I need it_  
_Feeling all your pain_  
_How I hold it_  
_Crashing through your walls_  
_Like a hammer_  
_Smashing up the floors_  
_Of your thinking_  
_Pull me through the cracks when you're sinking_  
_Pull me how you like_  
_God I'm trying_  
_Seeing all your life_  
_When it's dying_  
_Dragging me_  
_It kills when you're fighting_  
_Everything that is_  
_Is love about you_

_Stick me in my heart so I feel it_  
_Take me with your tears so I feel it_  
_Sharing all your love_  
_Now I feel it_  
_Bring it back to life_  
_I don't feel it_  
_Stick me in my heart_  
_So I feel it_  
_Sharing all your love_  
_Now I feel it_  
_Hold me in your love_  
_Cause love_  
_Hold me in your love cause love is everything…_

 

Matt appeared to be on some sort of upswing, but he knew too well how the mind ebbed and flowed. Mental health was like drowning, slowly and painfully, complete with intervals of having your head above water just before you went under yet again. And, he never really knew for sure if it would be the last time he fought his way up for air. 

He didn’t consider himself a pessimist, though, and so a small part of him hoped that he was truly coming out of this. This time, maybe for good. There was a low level of unease buzzing around him like an electrical current, but he counted it as better than the stifling panic that would sometimes short out his senses. He kept the momentary clarity to himself, though, afraid that he would instill a false hope in the man that was trying so hard to help him, who watched so eagerly for signs of improvement. 

Matt felt guilty most of the time; he knew he was a major imposition on Foggy’s life. If he were truly a hero, he told himself, then he would be able to cut Foggy loose to save him from all this trouble. Foggy was _all the good things_ though, and each time Matt considered pushing him away he simply found himself clinging tighter. It would have to be up to Foggy, then, to tell him when he had enough. Then Matt would go, he made himself promise that. 

There was a quiet tension building between them, one that was only made stronger with each delicate, absent-minded touch. The very night after they shared Foggy’s bed, Matt went straight back to sleeping on the couch and Foggy didn’t stop him. As with everything else that had transpired between them, they failed to even discuss it. 

Sharing a bathroom in the morning was also odd; theoretically Foggy should have been used to seeing Matt half-naked, still damp from a shower. Now more than ever, though, he felt a heaviness inside at the sight of the man in various stages of undress. It hung around like a tightness in his chest that made breathing difficult. 

“Here you go, buddy,” Foggy declared, handing Matt one of his suits. Matt had tags on all of his clothing to help him match up his wardrobe, but to Foggy it seemed silly for the man to go through the trouble with him around. And, he was always partial to the gray suit. 

“Um, thanks, Foggy…” Matt responded gingerly. He had a towel around his waist, fresh out of the shower, and Foggy couldn’t help but glance at the mix of pale and pink scars on his stomach. 

“It’s the gray one…” he reported awkwardly, and he fought the urge to reach out and touch the man’s skin again. Instead he just nodded and decided it was time to take his own shower, preferably a cool one. He realized he had essentially picked Matt’s clothes out for him, which was _possibly_ not welcome and _maybe_ a strange thing for a male friend to do. Then again, they were male friends who had already shared a kiss and a bed on multiple occasions. 

When Foggy left his shower he found Matt in the middle of the living room, fixing his necktie. He had nearly forgotten that, of course, the man didn’t use a mirror when he got ready. He also felt much more naked in front of Matt than ever before, even if he was covered by a towel and Matt couldn’t see him anyways. 

Matt heard him walk in then and turned, aiming a small, wordless shrug in his direction to ask if he looked presentable enough, just like he had done so often when they shared a room in College. 

Foggy couldn’t help but smile. “Looking sharp, Murdock!” he bellowed. It didn’t elicit the same jubilant smile that it used to, but it still tugged a small grin at the corner of Matt’s mouth. 

Matt had also successfully found his way into Foggy’s dreams as of late, like a tempting apparition. One particular image was especially hard to shake; the sight of Matt Murdock completely naked, sweating and shivering below those broad shoulders. That dream left Foggy breathless when he awoke, and he was actually relieved that he didn’t have Matt in the bed with him. Throughout that whole day even when he shut his eyes he saw it, as if it were permanently etched on the back of his eyeballs. 

Despite the urges that had been winding deep inside of him Foggy absolutely _refused_ to get off to the thought of Matt. It was harder than he would have liked to admit, but it simply felt like he would be taking advantage of his friend somehow, in his shaky, vulnerable state. And, if Matt could take all the pain he did on a regular basis then Foggy could certainly take a little heartsickness. So, instead, there were a lot of cool showers.

~~~

Of course, Karen didn’t have to be told anything to know that something had transpired. Over the course of the two weeks that followed her conversation with Foggy in the bar there was a substantial shift in the air around the office. Karen could feel the tension; it was not unlike the strange, ambiguous fight Matt and Foggy had undergone during the ordeal with Fisk. This time, however, though they appeared to be speaking less they seemed drawn closer together. 

Foggy was reaching out to touch Matt more often, sometimes without any reason to do so. His fingers would ghost Matt’s arm when he talked to him, or, he would rest a hand on Matt’s lower back with so much care, and it would linger. These touches were vague and innocent, but it was a marked change. Somehow, the two of them had managed to cultivate a different kind of affection almost overnight that they either weren’t aware of or didn’t wish to acknowledge. 

And then there was the fact that they came into the office together, every single morning. Karen wasn’t always there early enough to witness it, so that did help to prolong the façade. But there had been at least three days in a row that she arrived there before them, and by the last day she confirmed to herself that they had been showing up side by side, without fail. 

Slowly, Matt and Foggy seemed to be constructing a world that existed exclusively around the two of them, even more so than before, and Karen was almost beginning to feel that she was intruding. What concerned her the most, though, was how tired the both of them looked. Matt always wore those glasses, so she could never really look into the man’s eyes and see the true extent of his fatigue, but Foggy was always so transparent. Matt’s body language sometimes betrayed him as well, but this only seemed to be when he reached his absolute limit. 

“Is everything okay, Foggy?” asked Karen, her arms folded in front of her. Already she looked slightly exasperated by the lie he would inevitably tell. Foggy had been a little surprised when she asked him to come along on a lunch run, though a part of him had surmised she would want to talk about Matt’s well-being. He hadn’t really prepared what he would say if she did ask, though. 

It also wasn’t a conversation he was looking forward to; Matt would prefer that he didn’t divulge anything yet, but Foggy felt that he had to tell her something. Something true, for once. He knew that Matt was apprehensive and ashamed, but Matt didn’t seem to understand how friendship worked, really. Foggy hesitated, unsure if he should jump straight into a fabrication or come clean with her. His hesitation was answer enough, of course, to confirm to her that something was indeed amiss. 

“Both of you look exhausted.” she continued. “Have you talked to Matt yet about what’s going on with him?”

Foggy found himself staring at her like an idiot, mouth slightly ajar, brain hazy from lack of sleep. He put his money down on the counter for their pizza, and finally surrendered a nod. 

“Is he okay?” She asked, unsure of what she should and shouldn’t ask. She didn’t want to intrude, really; she knew she had a habit of pressing matters when she became concerned. 

“He’s… poor to fair.” Foggy shrugged wearily, immediately regretting that he had essentially graded Matt’s mental health on the same scale one would use to asses a used car. He tried to ignore the cringe on Karen’s face, quickly adding, “He wasn’t doing great, a couple weeks ago, but he seems to be…improving … I think.”

“Okay…” Karen nodded cautiously. “Well, that’s good, I guess.” She zeroed in on Foggy closer, her eyes studying him. “Has he been talking to you? I mean, has he actually been telling you how he’s feeling?” She knew that she might be prying, but there was a part of her that could never seem to shake that one night where Matt had opened up to her, where he had actually _cried_ on her. She had been so shocked and moved, so touched, and yet immediately afterward Matt had reconstructed his walls.

“Look, I… I can’t go into it too much… not without Matt knowing. You called it, though, he definitely needed some help. And, I really owe you for getting me off my ass that night at Josie’s. Just, try to trust that I’m doing my best to take care of it, okay? Try not to worry.” Foggy hated to see the injury in her eyes, even as she nodded in agreement, tucking a wisp of hair behind her ear.

He knew too well how much it hurt when Matt was secretive, the painful stab in the chest that came with realizing that a good friend fought so desperately to keep you at arm’s length. It felt like the man was shutting you down, forcing you out. It was hard to not take it personally. Still, how could he possibly explain to her why Matt was the way he was? It was something _he_ was just figuring out. 

“Okay, Foggy…” she smiled sadly, adding, “I’m glad he has you,” with true sincerity. 

They walked back to the office building in near silence, though Foggy halted her just before they went back in. “Karen- it’s not that Matt doesn’t trust you… it really is complicated. Matt’s a secretive guy… he just kind of learned to be that way. He thinks he has to deal with everything by himself. We’re trying to work on it, though. Just… please don’t give up on him, okay?”

The request took Karen a little by surprise, saddening her at the same time. She opened her mouth to speak, only to nod vigorously. 

~~~

“I think maybe we should tell Karen what’s going on with you, Matt.” Foggy sighed, and he felt Matt hesitate in his step as he led him by the arm down the sidewalk. He had known for a while now that Matt didn’t really need him to lead the way, but Matt had never actually said so and Foggy was more than happy to continue. It was one of the very few ways that Matt had allowed himself to rely on Foggy, even early on in their friendship, and Foggy had always secretly cherished it. Sometimes it even aggravated him to watch others lead Matt, and he would find himself silently picking apart their technique. 

“You know, maybe not _everything_ , but I feel like we owe it to her to tell her _something_.” said Foggy, slowing to a stop. “Wait a minute here, we’ve got the red light.”

Matt seemed to be mulling over Foggy’s suggestion, and he didn’t look pleased. “I-I don’t know, Foggy…” he answered quietly, “She’s just going to worry. What’s the point of making her worry?”

“Um, hate to break it you but she’s worried _now_. Karen’s your friend, buddy. She likes you. She _cares_. Friends are supposed to be the people that you actually share things with, not the people you try to keep the most secrets from,” he reasoned, giving Matt’s elbow a gentle tug. “We can cross now.”

There was a part of Matt that knew he had an issue with secrets, mainly because Foggy had told him so on multiple occasions. Problem was, he wasn’t sure he knew how to fix it. It was like a default setting in him, to hide himself from others. Even before the orphanage, before the accident, his father had been a fairly quiet, guarded man. His father taught him that you grit your teeth when you were hurt, you grit your teeth when you were frightened, and you grit your teeth when you were about to cry. When you were happy, well, then you could smile a little. 

“By the way, it continues to blow my mind that you think it’s easier for people to not know anything about what’s going on with you then to know at least some of the details. In real life it’s actually kind of the opposite.” Foggy continued, doing his best to gently steer Matt away from any people that looked like they might bump into him. 

Matt was listening, but he didn’t want to get into it; he knew Foggy was probably right. He knew Foggy was often right about these things. Foggy was a people person, a natural charmer, and his social skills transcended far beyond Matt’s. Hell, Foggy was the only person that Matt had ever been so comfortable with, and the extent of that comfort still consistently surprised him. 

If asked, Foggy would probably also swear that Matt lacked a key self-awareness, but it wasn’t really that simple. A piece of Matt knew that he locked people out not just for their benefit, but for his own safety as well. It was so much easier to do that, and nearly all the experiences he piled up over the years had only confirmed this. 

“The three of us are kind of like a family, right? We help each other out.” said Foggy, not realizing that Matt had tuned him out. It was hard to tell through the dark glasses, but the look on Matt’s face was nearly blank, save for maybe just a tinge of distress. Foggy wasn’t sure if he was reading the man right or not, but it really looked as if he doubted what Foggy was saying was the honest-to-god truth. 

Then it occurred to Foggy; when would Matt have even had the chance to learn about healthy friendships, let alone the dynamics of a family? His dad alone was problematic; Matt looked back with nostalgia on stitching up his own father’s cuts. He was actually proud that he had gotten so good at giving stitches at such an early age. His childhood memories, even the good ones, were _sad as fuck_ , the definition of cringe-worthy.

He couldn’t have even had _extended_ family that cared for him, otherwise there would have been someone, anyone, that would have kept him out of that orphanage when his mother failed to show up. Nobody stepped forward to make sure that Matthew Murdock was taken care of, no aunt or uncle, no widowed grandmother that couldn’t bear to see her sweet Matty all alone. 

It filled Foggy with a sinking sadness, but it also _pissed him off_. Where was _everybody_ when Matt was a kid? How in the world did a child, a blind one at that, just slip so easily through the hands of love and affection?

They had come to another intersection, gotten the go ahead to walk, but instead they stayed put. Foggy turned to Matt and took a deep breath, trying to exhale his discontent for the world. “You and me and Karen, we're like family,” he tried to explain as he clutched a hold of Matt’s shoulder. “Families care about each other, no matter what happens, even if you mess up. It’s like a free pass for love, dude. You should be happy about it, not scared.”

Matt didn’t really look convinced, though. 

~~~

Matt’s appetite was still lacking, and Foggy secretly worried that it was less about hunger and more about self-punishment. _Matt wouldn't intentionally starve himself, would he?_ In order to motivate him Foggy told Matt that he would make him anything he wanted for dinner, anything at all, but it took quite a bit of goading to get him to name a food. Finally, they ended up having pancakes for dinner. Matt was also quiet that evening, but he didn’t look as visibly distressed as he had the week before and so Foggy hoped that this was a sign of improvement. 

By the end of the evening Foggy found himself utterly depleted, and yet he still couldn’t sleep. All he could do was replay scenes from the day and think of Matt in the other room, him and his complicated mix of virtues and downfalls. He wondered if Matt was awake as well, and, if he was then didn’t it just make more sense for them to be awake together?

 _“Matt?”_ he called softly, so soft that no normal person would have heard it. There was a brief silence, and then he heard Matt stir on the couch, just moments before he appeared in Foggy’s doorway. 

“Yeah, Foggy?” he responded quietly. 

Truthfully, he just wanted Matt in the bed next to him, and the safety of night made him so much more brazen. “Why don’t you just sleep in here?” Foggy offered with a shrug that he figured Matt could probably sense. He hated that he was aware of the increase in his own heartrate, he was so much more self-conscious about those kind of things after he learned of Matt’s abilities. 

Matt stood there for just a moment before he made his way over to the bed and slipped under the covers, unsure if he was making the right decision or not. Truthfully, it was the kind of night in which he doubted his self-control, he questioned his ability to steer himself away from a reckless decision. Still, Foggy’s bed was inviting, and so was Foggy.

They lie there in silence, side by side, both facing the ceiling and not even attempting to feign sleep. Matt felt a warm heavy tug deep inside him, pulling taut, and Foggy’s heartrate and body heat were also on the rise- which didn’t help. It was five wordless minutes before Foggy finally found the courage to turn and face Matt in the bed. 

_“Matt…”_ he said again, a desperate whisper in the dark. Matt tilted his head vaguely in his direction at first, and then he also rolled toward Foggy, feeling something weighty and different in the way Foggy had said his name.

Foggy wasn’t sure what he had expected to say to the man, he wasn’t entirely sure what he planned to do. Facing Matt in that bed though, just inches from his handsome face, it churned a hunger in Foggy that was hard to stamp out. His hands were already so close to Matt’s body that all he had to do was reach out and touch him, and under a canopy of darkness what did it matter? The early hour and the slowly rising heat between them coaxed out a little more courage.

Foggy hoped that Matt wasn’t paying attention to the slow, deep breath he had just forced, or his heart rate. The chances of that were slim, though. Still, he stretched out his hand slowly, warning Matt of its presence, until his fingertips touched down on the stubble of Matt’s cheek. Matt leaned into the contact a little, but his eyes were still so vague and unreadable. Foggy pushed his luck even further, dragging those fingers down the side of Matt’s neck, onto his collarbone, prompting a small sigh from the man before him. 

He suddenly couldn’t help but picture burying his nose in the man’s hair, breathing him in, kissing him senseless. For a brief moment he let himself concoct the image of gifting Matt unbridled pleasure, carrying him to heaven. Then, before he even had a chance to second guess it, he found his fingers stroking down ever so gently on the curve of Matt’s waist, careful and intimidated. He looked Matt in the face and tried to hear his thoughts, but Matt’s expression was subdued, hard to read in the dark. His eyes seemed to be waiting, though, and Foggy felt that the man’s breath rate had increased. 

So Foggy let his hand wander down Matt’ side, cautiously caressing his skin until his fingertips lightly clutched an angular hipbone. Already his heart was racing, and he knew Matt would be able to hear it. _Just for once_ , Foggy thought to himself, _it would be great if I could tell what the hell he's thinking_. He didn’t have to speculate for long, as Matt then languidly stretched his lower half up into him like a cat, pressing his already stiffening self into Foggy’s upper thigh. 

Foggy tightened his lips to stifle a whimper, but it was futile. It didn’t really matter though; Matt was rubbing against him in slow, gentle pulses. He was begging to be touched. Begging _Foggy_ to touch him. Foggy shivered at the thought, his own erection already pulsing uncomfortably in the hollow of Matt’s hip. 

Foggy considered himself to have a modest amount of sexual experience, but now he felt like a fucking teenager again, groping in the dark, hoping to god that what he was doing felt good for Matt. Hell, Matt didn’t even have to _try_ to be sexy, he just _was_. Foggy had never had it that easy; he had always hidden his insecurities behind his sense of humor. And, Matt didn’t even know how sexy he was, which somehow just made it all the more unnerving. 

But then Matt’s warm breath was crashing against his ear, and Foggy could no longer follow his anxious train of thought. His hips quickened their contact, grinding against Matt’s, eliciting small gasps from the man before him. Matt was tucking in close to him, his bare belly pressing against Foggy’s, skin humming against skin. A damp spot began to form on the fabric barrier between them, and Foggy wasn’t sure if it was from him or Matt or both. He realized shortly after that it didn’t really matter, anyways.

The skin on his neck prickled as they huffed in the dark, quiet and breathless, guilty and wanton. With one particularly feverish grind Matt moaned against Foggy’s neck, his lips warm and parted, and it possessed Foggy to push even further. He forced his fingers down between them, slipping past the elastic waistband of Matt’s sweatpants and wrapping around his begging cock. 

This was no time for foreplay, anyways, no time for silly illusions of romance. His fist went straight to pumping, slick with Matt’s precome, inciting another low moan from Matt that sounded like he was already nearly there. It made Foggy absolutely dizzy, the sound of Matt’s pleasure nearly knocking him stupid. His own groans were uninhibited; all that seemed to matter to him anymore was being able to get Matt there.

There was still a voice at the back of Matt’s head that said he should have more self-control, that he might be messing up again, but Matt couldn’t hear it over the heat radiating from his groin. His hand groped for Foggy then, his palm first pulsing against the solid length through Foggy’s boxers, then pushing as best it could through their grinding hips, slipping in to grab a hold of Foggy’s cock and mirroring the feverish pace. Matt began to shiver as he pushed his body in as close as possible, all the while both of their fists working wildly, clumsily.

It was disheveled, frantic, and the most beautiful thing in the world to Foggy at that moment. He tried his best to glimpse Matt’s face in the dark; his eyes screwed tight, his brow drawn up in desperation, his pink lips parted and panting. The closer Foggy was to coming, the closer he felt Matt getting in his hand, he began to kiss Matt feverishly, blindly, landing kisses on his cheeks, lips, chin and jawline. 

And then suddenly Matt was climaxing against him, tucking his head under Foggy’s chin and shuddering the word, _“F-Foggy”_ in the crook of his neck. His hips reared into the man, jostling him, warm come pooling in his sweatpants with each wave of intense pleasure. Foggy came then too, his own cry of release strangled and almost pained. He clutched his free hand to the small of Matt’s back and held him in tight, all the while panting for air and hoping that it would never end. 

It did, though, as it inevitably had to. Afterward the two of them didn’t budge from where they lay, Foggy’s chin still resting on the top of Matt’s head. Their breathing steadied and their hands slipped out of each other’s pants, but they were too tired, too content, to worry about tidying up. Instead, they just fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title and lyrics from "Stick Me in My Heart" by Archive.


	7. It's Just a Drive into the Dark Stretch, Long Stretch of Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “No, Matt, it’s _not your responsibility…”_ Foggy continued to reason, but he could feel Matt starting to resist his touch, his body magnetically drawn to the bedroom where his armor was stashed. Foggy was desperate to keep him there, the fear of what might happen otherwise like thick mud at the back of his throat. He resolved to do all he could, and since he couldn’t really fight the man he decided to pull him in close, wrapping his arms firmly around his back like a restraining bear hug.
> 
> Matt accepted the contact at first, allowing Foggy’s fingers to stretch soothingly up into his hair. He even leaned into the touch, his shoulders relaxing from the warmth. He wanted to be there, in Foggy’s arms, but his mind began to chatter; _did he really deserve comforting things?_ Stick had told him that comforts were merely a distraction, that they would divert him from his true purpose, which was to be a soldier. If he gave into luxuries then he was surrendering, giving into his weaknesses.
> 
> He pushed out of Foggy’s hold, then, heading decisively toward the suit.

_“Some nights I thirst for real blood_  
_For real knives_  
_For real cries_  
_And then the flash of steel from real guns_  
_In real life_  
_Really fills my mind_

_Sometimes the blood from real cuts_  
_Feels real nice_  
_When it's really mine_  
_And if you want it to be real_  
_Come over for one night_  
_And we can really, really climb_

_And those blue bridge lights might really burn most bright_  
_As we watch that dark lake rise_  
_And if you really want to see what really matters most to me_  
_Just take a real short drive_

_It's just a drive into the dark stretch_  
_Long stretch of night_  
_Will really stretch this shaking mind_  
_And this room, unlit, unheated_  
_And the ceiling striped_  
_And the dark black blinds_

_I want to know this time if you're really finally mine_  
_I need to know that you're not lying so I want to see you tried_  
_And I don't want to hear you say it shouldn't really be this way_  
_‘Cause I like this way just fine…”_

 

This time when Foggy awoke in the morning Matt was no longer next to him. He pulled himself up onto his elbows, visions of what had transpired the night before crashing in with a paralyzing mortification. In the morning light his actions looked so sordid, so perverted. He rubbed at his face, wishing he could take it back. How the hell were things going to go _now?_

He also loathed how _satisfied_ he felt; his body was thankful for what had occurred even though his mind was reeling. Even conjuring up an image of Matt curling up into him, panting and moaning- of _him_ being able to get Matt off- went straight to his groin with a sickening satisfaction, and he hated himself for it. He didn’t want to face Matt, but he knew it would be immature (not to mention impossible) for him to avoid the situation. He couldn’t stay in bed forever. He told himself that he had transgressed, and he would have to work up the courage to dig out Matt’s opinion on what they had just done. He only hoped the man was still in the apartment. 

Thankfully, Matt hadn’t left. His hair was damp, having freshly showered, and he was sitting by the kitchen window that he must have designated as his space. The look on Matt’s face only mortified Foggy further; he was visibly tense even as he bade him a subdued “morning”. Foggy stood in front of him, in only his boxers, utterly unsure of what to say or where to even begin. 

He couldn’t know, of course, that the thoughts crashing through Matt’s mind were nearly identical to his own; Matt believed that _he_ had fucked up. He had come to the conclusion that he had let Foggy down, effectively dragging him into an intimacy that would only mean inevitable heartache for the man. As he sat there by the window and listened for signs of Foggy stirring he had essentially taken stock of all the good things in his life that he had ruined, and at the end of his long list he added their friendship. That, he concluded, was also _the best thing_ that he had ruined. 

“Morning…” Foggy responded with a feeble rasp. Matt appeared to be waiting, but so was Foggy, and thus the room was permitted to fill with a dense, uncomfortable silence. Finally, Foggy made his way over to the coffee maker and started it, glancing nervously over at Matt and trying to read him. He didn’t even really feel like coffee, felt that the bitterness would just stew in his already tense stomach, but it was comforting to preoccupy himself with something familiar and routine. 

Once the pot had finished brewing, it became clear to Foggy that Matt was not going to open up first, and really he knew he shouldn’t have expected otherwise. He poured himself a cup, comforted by the warmth of it against his hand, and worked up the courage to break that unnerving silence. 

“How…” Foggy started, internally panicking that he was already speaking though he hadn’t planned any sort of sentence, “How are you?” he forced out awkwardly. 

Matt shrugged. Foggy hated it when Matt shrugged. Somehow the man believed that it was a valid answer, suitable for so many questions.

“Matt…” Foggy sighed, “Will you please not just express your feelings to me in various shrugs and facial expressions? I hate it when you do that. I have no idea what it means. We have to actually talk about what happened, about what’s going on.”

Matt was a bit taken aback, and he automatically looked up in Foggy’s direction with yet another wordless expression, as if he had gone mute. He hadn’t expected Foggy to jump right in. After all, they had failed to discuss any of their other indiscretions. 

“The kissing, the touching, the… _groping.”_ Foggy detailed, words now spilling out of him as Matt flinched. “We have to talk about this. we can’t just keep pretending that it’s not happening. Last night… that was a whole new level of weird for us.” 

“I know, Foggy...” Matt relented with obvious guilt. Truthfully, he had carved out a little safe place for himself in that unspoken intimacy, and he was afraid to face the fear of losing that. It had been almost like a daydream, but now they were talking about it and that made it real. Reality had to be dealt with, it had consequences. 

Matt knew it had to be discussed, but he was terrified of doing so, as if exposing the subject to light would somehow bring about the inevitable destruction that he so feared. He had hoped he could bask in that little sliver of naïveté for just a bit longer, but last night had made that impossible, and, it was his fault. He should have had the self-discipline to resist his urges, especially useless, destructive urges like sexual pleasure. 

Since they became friends, the two of them had been a kind of close that always tested the limits of Matt’s comfort zone. It didn’t seem to matter though, because it was Foggy. A little uneasiness here and there was worth it. Now though, now that this newfound intimacy was crashing in and they were dragging it out into the light, poking and prodding at it, Matt felt the irresistible urge to gather up his emotions and retreat. 

There was a twinge of panic, and Matt pushed himself up onto his feet. He wandered past Foggy into the living room, hands on his hips to feign stability. “I-I made a mistake.” he stammered. 

“No, Matt, I’m the one that screwed up,” Foggy asserted, following him. “You were vulnerable, and I was the one that asked you to get in bed with me…and I started… _touching you…”_ he massaged a hand over his own eyes as the images resurfaced for a second time. “Things got a little carried away, and it was my fault.” 

“Foggy…” Matt started, shaking his head.

“Just- let me apologize okay? I’m sorry, Matt, because I did enjoy it- well, _obviously_ \- but it maybe wasn’t the best time…”

“I…” Matt started, visibly flustered by the conversation, “I enjoyed it, too… _obviously_.” he surrendered in a near whisper, turning his body only halfway in Foggy’s direction. “I just… I don’t know how to do this…”

“What?” asked Foggy, waiting patiently with roving eyes. “Do what, Matt?”

Matt resigned back to shrugging, his eyes on the floor. 

“Matt…” Foggy sighed, “I’m not looking to call you my boyfriend, or whatever. In fact, it freaks me the fuck out that I just used the words ‘my boyfriend’ in a sentence. I just… I couldn’t stand the thought that you felt… forced into anything last night. Okay, buddy? We don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to.”

Matt’s body visibly relaxed and he nodded, finally rotating to face the man.

“So, you didn’t feel forced into anything?” Foggy winced, “You promise?”

“Promise,” Matt responded with a shy grin, and he reached out to pat Foggy on the shoulder. “You were… a complete gentleman.”

Foggy rolled his eyes, though he was unable to quell the wide smile that stretched across his own face. He wasn’t entirely sure how Matt felt about their actions the night before, but for now he was perfectly content to know that he at least hadn’t felt pressured. The fact that he had enjoyed it, well, that was definitely a bonus. 

There was a sudden twitch of amusement in Matt’s expression, and then he asked, “Foggy, are… are you not wearing clothing?”

“Um… would it negate everything we just said if I told you I wasn’t?”

“God, maybe you are a pervert.” Matt chuckled, and, he smiled for the first time since Foggy could remember. A real, true smile, un-strained, natural. _Beautiful_. Foggy’s reaction was one that surprised even himself; he suddenly wanted to cry. Or, maybe, he wanted to praise Matt for smiling. Instead, he cupped his hand behind Matt’s head and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek, just beside the corner of his mouth, soft but sincere. 

He kissed the smile right off of Matt’s face. “W-what was that for?” Matt asked quietly, moved by the deep tenderness he felt through Foggy’s lips. His cheeks flushed briefly. 

Foggy shrugged. “You… you just have… the most beautiful smile _I’ve ever seen_. Have I told you that before? I mean, really… it…” he gave up on his sentence, punctuating it with a devastated sigh.

Now Matt’s cheeks were reddening, along with his ears. He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t really know what to say. He wasn’t great with compliments. So, instead, he just smiled again, though this smile was much more subdued, self-aware. 

“I’m going to go put on pants now.” Foggy announced, feeling suddenly revitalized. 

~~~ 

Matt’s mental reprieve was indeed short-lived, though, his fears not unfounded. 

He awoke in the middle of the night smothered in panic, indistinct fear gripping him from within. His first coherent thought was that it was hard to breathe, his second that he must have somehow managed to collapse a lung again. It took him a few gasps to piece together that he had simply awoken mid panic attack, and then it came to him that the source of his alarm had been the sound of a gunshot. 

He hastily jumped off the couch and stood in the middle of the living room, clutching at the t-shirt across his chest, trying desperately to steady himself amidst full blown hyperventilation. His mind was racing though, each individual thought like a fleeting wisp too quick to catch hold of, and that made centering himself difficult. 

It didn’t take long for Foggy to rush out of the bedroom, having only just been under a thin veil of sleep himself. 

“Jesus Matt, you okay?” asked Foggy as he planted himself in front of the man, studying him, instinctively looking for injuries even if Matt’s current affliction wasn’t physical. 

“A gunshot, I-I heard it…” Matt’s voice cracked, his chest heaving. His eyes darted with a rapidly surging panic. 

“Maybe it was just thunder, Matt, or- I don’t know- maybe it was a truck?” Foggy offered hastily, his hands stretched out in front of him in distress. He had never seen Matt like this before, and frankly it terrified him.

“N-no, it-it was a gunshot-“ Matt insisted, his eyelashes blinking thick and heavy with tears. 

“Okay Matty,” Foggy soothed, clasping Matt’s face in his hands, urging him back to reality. Foggy’s mind hastened through the confusion, and he wasn’t sure what he should do. There was no way a gunshot alone had caused such trepidation; it was a sound that Matt heard frequently while out in the armor. 

Foggy wasn’t sure if it had been some sort of nightmare that had set him off or not, but a creeping fear began to tell him that if Matt believed he heard a gunshot then it wouldn’t be long before he decided it was up to him to rescue whoever was on the receiving end. In such a state, Foggy couldn’t see any situation where that would turn out to be a positive thing. 

“Just try to slow your breathing, okay buddy? Breath in through your nose and out through your mouth,” he instructed, attempting to fight back his own nerves for Matt’s sake. 

But Matt was shaking his head, his eyes wild. “I have to- people die when I’m not out there, Foggy. It-it’s up to me t-to…” 

“No, Matt, _it’s not your responsibility…”_ Foggy continued to reason, but he could feel Matt starting to resist his touch, his body magnetically drawn to the bedroom where his armor was stashed. Foggy was desperate to keep him there, the fear of what might happen otherwise like thick mud at the back of his throat. He resolved to do all he could, and since he couldn’t really fight the man he decided to pull him in close, wrapping his arms firmly around his back like a restraining bear hug. 

Matt accepted the contact at first, allowing Foggy’s fingers to stretch soothingly up into his hair. He even leaned into the touch, his shoulders relaxing from the warmth. He wanted to be there, in Foggy’s arms, but his mind began to chatter; _did he really deserve comforting things?_ Stick had told him that comforts were merely a distraction, that they would divert him from his true purpose, which was to be a soldier. If he gave into luxuries then he was surrendering, giving in to his weaknesses. 

He pushed out of Foggy’s hold, then, heading decisively toward the suit. 

_“Matt,”_ Foggy desperately pled, following after him. “Please don’t go out there, you’re not in the right mindset. At least wait a little while, just a few minutes!” he shouted. Matt was pulling on the armor though, his face set fiercely in determination. He had tuned Foggy out. 

“Jesus Matt, just trust me!” Foggy shouted. He made one final attempt to halt the man, using his body to block Matt in the corner, but Matt pushed past him, his strong chest like a battering ram. 

Foggy pushed his hair up off his forehead, filling to the brim with a wild distress. “Fine, go out then, get yourself beaten up. But you’re not actually going out there to save anyone, Matt, _not tonight_. You’re just running away!” he shouted, the back of his throat and his eyes cringing with the threat of tears. 

It didn’t matter, though, Matt was gone. He had left the kitchen window open, neglecting to slide it shut behind him like he had done last time. Foggy stood there for a moment, sinking into himself, and then finally he walked back into the living room and weakly dropped onto the couch, allowing himself to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and opening lyrics are from "For Real" by Okkervil River


	8. As Mad as the Moon and Twice as Scarred

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt was trying his hardest to not visibly fidget, he was trying to appear comfortable in his skin. There was a part of him in there somewhere that was crying out for Foggy’s help, but that side of him was being smothered by the storm. Instead of reaching out to Foggy like he had wanted to, he heard himself pushing the man away. “I don’t need you to take care of me, Foggy,” he said, and it was like an out of body experience. 
> 
> Foggy turned to him swiftly, surprised by the sudden revelation. Matt could feel his disbelief, and he wholly expected Foggy to fight back. When he didn’t, Matt found himself driving the point deeper, despite his best efforts to resist. 
> 
> “I’ve taken care of myself most of my life…” he declared, cocking his head and shrugging with an unintended petulance.

_“Ain’t it useless to fight or to pretend_  
_It’ll all come out right in the end_  
_Still you wait for me_  
_You who’ve only time_  
_Still you wait for me_  
_Care to ease my mind_  
_Iodine and iron?_

_And I’m thinking of you when times are hard_  
_I feel as mad as the moon and twice as scarred_  
_Still you wait for me_  
_And you fill my heart_  
_Still you wait for me_  
_And you light the dark_  
_Iodine and iron…”_

 

Foggy awoke to a hazed confusion and a cold morning light. He hadn’t remembered falling asleep; as far as he could recollect he had curled up on the couch, crying without restraint for the first time since he had decided that he would be Matt’s hero. There was a chill in the air, and that only meant one thing; the window was still open, Matt hadn’t come home. Already Foggy could hear the sounds of fervent traffic in the street, already the sun was high enough to make some sort of dim impression on his wall. 

He slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position, the reality of what it all meant landing with a numbing anxiety. There had to be only a small handful of reasons why Matt wouldn’t have returned, and none of them were good. He wouldn’t _willingly_ be out there still in the suit, not in the daylight. Now, if he _couldn’t return_ , that was something else.

Foggy sprung to his feet then, staring helplessly at the open window. Fatigue was still clogging up his thoughts, hazing the sharpness of his mind. He had to push past it though, he had to outrun the exhaustion. Quickly he got dressed, put on his shoes, choked back a cup of stale coffee from the day before. 

His body felt heavy and tired, practically ill, but he forced himself to come up with a plan. First, it was Monday, just after 8. He would have to call Karen.

He got her voicemail. “Karen, hey. Uh… I don’t know if you’ve headed into work yet or not, but if not then don’t bother. Matt and I… we're both not feeling well today, and so we won’t be there. No point in you coming in if we aren’t going to be there, right?” Foggy forced an awkward chuckle. “So yeah, anyways, don’t worry about work today. Um… I’ll see you around. Bye.” He ended the call and took a deep breath. 

_Think Nelson, think_. He could check hospitals. Rooftops, but there were so many of them. An idea hit him, and he quickly switched on the morning news. Surely if the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen had been arrested then they would be reporting it? Or… if something even worse had occurred. 

There were no breaking news headlines across the bottom of the screen though, no video footage on a loop of Daredevil’s body found lifeless in an alley. Instead it was just crudely smiling faces, far too peppy for the morning hour, discussing the interminably high cost of rent in New York. 

It was something of a relief, certainly. But it also didn’t get Foggy anywhere; he was no closer to finding out what had become of Matt. He grabbed a jacket off his coat rack and headed out of the apartment, not entirely sure where he was going to look first. He had to be doing _something_ , though. 

Not even five minutes had passed before Foggy’s phone was ringing, and it was Karen. _“Damn it.”_ he cursed under his breath. “Hey, Karen, what’s up?” 

“Are you okay?” she asked immediately, and he knew she wasn’t referring to the hitch in his breath as he quickly descended the stairwell. 

“Everything’s fine, okay? I’m… just not feeling great today. Matt isn’t either… he called me, and I made an executive decision that we both might as well just stay home. It’s not like we have clients lining up at our door, anyways.”

He could practically hear her mulling over his words, and he knew that she wasn’t buying it. “Okay, Foggy.” She relented with a sigh. “But… if you or Matt need anything, I’m here.”

“Thanks.” he swallowed, hesitating just before he ended the call. 

~~~

Foggy finally decided that before he checked any of the local hospitals, before he ran around searching any rooftops, it made the most sense for him to check if Matt had simply _gone home_. There was a corner of him that worried Matt would especially do such a thing if he was hurt; it was just like him to retreat to his own den when wounded, like some sort wild beast. If anyone personified the injured animal that hid, it was Matt. 

He couldn’t get to Matt’s fast enough, squirming in the back of a cab as various macabre images played out in his mind: Matt bleeding out on the living room floor. Matt tending to some sort of horrific gunshot wound in his bathroom. Matt stretched out on his bed, gray and deceased, still in the suit. Foggy growled to himself as he shook those nightmares out of his head, trying instead to focus on his plan of action if Matt _wasn’t there_. The next step, he surmised, would be to check the hospitals. 

He scrambled up to the roof access of Matt’s apartment, all the while his heart drumming and stomach quivering, until he was on the top landing looking down over Matt’s living room. 

And there he was, sitting on the floor, his back to Foggy, knees drawn up. Matt was still in the suit, mask removed. There was a strange contrast between the menacing military-like efficiency of the armor he donned and his boyish pose, one that was a bit unsettling. 

Foggy descended the stairs and they squealed under him, leaving no shadow of a doubt that Matt would know he was there. Matt didn’t acknowledge him, though. As soon as Foggy had set eyes on the figure there had been an immense relief circulating through his veins, but in that relief, with each approaching step, grew an anger. 

Finally, he was standing right next to Matt, glancing down at him furtively, studying him. Still, Matt just sat there, his arms encircling his knees, eyes blinking toward the floor. 

“You hurt?” Foggy asked warily, watching out of the corner of his eye as Matt slowly shook his head. 

A shining black slick caught in his peripheral, and he realized that the knuckles of Matt’s gloves were thick with blood. Someone else out there was certainly hurting, hopefully someone who deserved it.

“Well, that’s good I guess,” Foggy stated curtly, standing over the man at his feet, trying hard to force a cold disposition. He was infuriated with Matt, of course, furious that Matt had made him worry so intensely. Now that he knew that he wasn’t hurt he had no problem wearing that anger.

“Did you find your gunshot?” Foggy asked, and even he couldn’t help but wince at his own tone. He truly didn’t mean to mock the man; he was just _so tired_. Tired and relieved, desolate and frustrated, angry with a god he wasn’t sure he believed in. 

Matt looked lower than low, then, and he shook his head again as if it were heavy. 

“Looks like you found someone…” Foggy sighed. He crouched down in front of Matt, staring into him, discreetly trying to take inventory of any injuries that Matt might have neglected to mention. The mask was by his side, red eyes staring up at Foggy, and he wanted to throw the damn thing out the window.

“Foggy…” Matt started feebly, but Foggy interjected. 

“Save it. Especially if you’re going to say _‘I’m sorry’_. I _definitely_ don’t want to hear that right now,” he chuckled angrily, straightening back up and stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jacket. 

Matt’s head sunk further then and he nodded, his chin briefly quivering before he caught it. 

“I wish you would just trust me.” Foggy admitted aloud. 

“Why… why did you come looking for me?” Matt asked, and the self-loathing in his voice was undeniable. It was clear that what he truly meant was, _why do you even go through the trouble of caring for me?_

It clenched at Foggy’s heart, but he wasn’t ready to forfeit his anger just yet. He didn’t want to give in, to condone Matt’s self-destruction. “Sorry Matt, but I haven’t had enough yet,” Foggy stated, “Not even close. So, come on, get changed and we’ll go home.”

~~~

“I wish you would have just left that thing behind,” said Foggy, referring to the paper bag Matt had tucked under his arm, concealing the Daredevil suit. 

Matt didn’t have an answer, and so he just absorbed the remark in silence. Even just the thought of not having the armor ready at his fingertips caused a tumultuous swell of fear in him that he could barely stomach; In his mind leaving it behind was not even an option.

He stood just in the entrance of Foggy’s apartment, timid and ashamed, essentially waiting for Foggy to tell him what to do, where to go. Foggy watched him from the kitchen, hating the fact that Matt had to look so handsome in his black coat. Sometimes it was hard to stay mad at the man, other times- like when Matt recklessly scared the shit out of him- it was far too easy. _Most of the time_ , however, it was a baffling combination of the two. 

“What did you tell Karen?” Matt asked, just a hint of trepidation. 

“That we were both sick. She didn’t buy it, but she didn’t ask any follow up questions, either.” Foggy replied, rubbing at his temple with the pad of his thumb. He couldn’t remember the last time he had slept for more than four hours, though he knew that Matt had tallied up even less sleep himself.

At the back of Matt’s throat welled so many _“I’m sorrys”,_ but he swallowed them back down, knowing that would only anger Foggy further. What was the point of an apology if you had no control over yourself, anyways? It’s not like he could promise Foggy that he would do better, not without some serious internal doubt. 

Matt could feel Foggy watching him, could hear his breath shifting multiple times as he prepared to speak, only to decide not to. When he did finally speak it was just to relent the words, “I’m tired,” and the gravity in his voice was enough to trample Matt’s heart. 

“I’m going to go lay down, okay?” Foggy added. He waited for Matt’s response, which was a guarded nod, and then he dragged himself into the bedroom.

Foggy had considered suggesting that Matt try to get some rest as well, but he ultimately gave up on the idea. There was still a part of him that hoped if he could just convince Matt to get enough sleep or get enough to eat then somehow he would be okay, but a slow reality was rolling in, proving to him that this was not the case. Not even close. Slowly but surely, he was being made more and more aware that he didn’t know the first thing about mental illness, let alone how to care for someone who suffered from it. 

Unbeknownst to Foggy, Matt actually did lie down on the couch. He didn’t sleep, though. He waited until Foggy’s breath slowed and steadied, until Foggy had fallen asleep, and then curled up as tight as he could facing the back of the couch, allowing his mind to whirl. 

There was a nagging darkness, and he could feel it creeping up on him. It had been slowly building since the night before, hungry and malignant. He hadn’t found the source of the gunshot, but he had found someone to hit. He tracked a rabbit-like heartbeat to the back alley of a bar; a young woman coerced into a corner by a sleaze who stank of spilled beer and stale vomit. 

Nothing overtly criminal had occurred yet and the woman hadn’t said a word, but Matt could hear and smell her distress. So, he took the opportunity to drop in and grind the man’s nose into a brick wall while the woman rushed back into the bar. The guy was armed with a knife, but he was too drunk to even reach for it in time. Just like all the others he was no match; He was already unsteady on his feet, went down easy. In the end Matt had to hold back and pull himself off of the man’s unconscious body before he beat him into a coma. 

The dissatisfaction lingered bitter in the back of his throat, coaxing a slow rage. He tried to stay a breath ahead of it though. After a couple hours of passivity, Matt left the couch and bent into a meditative pose, attempting to will himself into serenity. He could still feel it though; it was a permanent distraction lurking just under the skin, like a splinter. It was an impending storm, black and vacuous, dangerous and destructive. 

The longer he sat there and tried to focus, the more his body twitched with frustration. He found himself slowly tensing, his jaw squeezing into a tight grit. It was pointless. He jumped back up to his feet and tried to fight the urge to pace, tried to refuse his body’s demand to take in too much air. There was a sudden, distinct urge to go to Foggy, shake him awake, beg for help. Warn him that he was on the edge of something dark and vicious. He could picture going to Foggy, but he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it. 

He resolved to do pushups, instead. If sitting still was only feeding the fever then maybe he needed to douse it with action. He pushed his body to do pushup after pushup until his shirt was pasted to his skin, hoping that the lactic burn would broil his anxiety down to a more manageable level. 

And it was then that Foggy awoke from his nap, around 6pm. He ambled into the living room to find Matt in such a state, sweaty and frenetic. Matt’s shirt was clinging to his back, beads of perspiration glistening on his arms and dripping off the tip of his nose as he toiled. 

“Um… why, Matt?” was all Foggy could manage, his eyes following as Matt continued to do pushup after pushup. How could the man not know that exercise was the last thing his body needed at that moment? He needed a lot of sleep, and healthy food, and reliable affection, and possibly a course of antidepressants, but self-discipline should have been at the bottom of the list, if it even made the cut. 

Matt was so spent that each exhale was forced out of him on his way back down to the floor, like a soft bark. Foggy was just about to beg him to stop when Matt jumped back to his feet and tried to catch his breath, hands planted stubbornly on his hips.

“What are you doing?” Foggy asked, and already the exhaustion was creeping back into his voice. 

Matt knew that Foggy would hate it, but he responded with a vague shrug. He didn’t really have an answer for the man, and he felt that the words would catch in his throat anyways. Talking to Foggy suddenly seemed like such a hard thing to do, like it would take so much effort. Even as his muscles burned he couldn’t shake the overwhelming desire to sequester himself, if anything the rapid exertion had acted as a kindling. It was all the buildup with no destructive payoff. 

He could feel Foggy’s shoulders drop, utterly disenchanted with the shrug. “Okay, whatever.” Foggy brushed off the conversation and dragged his feet into the kitchen. “Well, are you hungry, at least? We should probably make something for dinner.”

Matt was trying his hardest to not visibly fidget, he was trying to appear comfortable in his skin. There was a part of him in there somewhere that was crying out for Foggy’s help, but that side of him was being smothered by the storm. Instead of reaching out to Foggy like he had wanted to, he heard himself pushing the man away. “I don’t need you to take care of me, Foggy,” he said, and it was like an out of body experience. 

Foggy turned to him swiftly, surprised by the sudden revelation. Matt could feel his disbelief, and he wholly expected Foggy to fight back. When he didn’t, Matt found himself driving the point deeper, despite his best efforts to resist. 

“I’ve taken care of myself most of my life…” he declared, cocking his head and shrugging with an unintended petulance. 

“Matt.” Foggy started, no longer reeling from the shock, “take a look at yourself- figuratively speaking- You are _flailing. At best_ you are just surviving.”

Matt gave him another look, somewhere between an eye roll and a flinch. He had dropped himself into another needless quarrel that he knew he couldn’t win; Foggy was right. 

Foggy growled to himself in frustration, pushing his fingers into his hair. “How can one person be _so smart_ and _so dense_ all at once?” 

“I… I just- I don’t need you to treat me like a child.” Matt tried to walk himself back from his previous statement, but the damage had already been done. 

“Okay then. Done. I will treat you like a well-adjusted grown man, even when you don’t act like one. Feel better?” Foggy spat. 

Of course Matt didn’t feel better. He felt like he was sinking. He wanted to tell Foggy that, he wanted to sulk over to the man in defeat, lay his head on his shoulder and mutter, _No, I feel terrible. Please help me, Foggy._

Instead he turned away, muttering, “I’m going to go take a shower.”

~~~

Matt shut the bathroom door behind him, and he locked it. He peeled off his soaked shirt, turned on the shower faucet, but planted himself in front of the sink instead. Grimly he braced himself on the porcelain edge, braced himself for what he knew was about to happen. If there was still a voice in there that begged him to leave the bathroom and go back out to Foggy, he could no longer hear it. He wanted this too much. 

Tonight, Matt needed that visceral lullaby. It was the only arrangement that was sure to quiet his mind, drown out the dissonance. He needed to feel the cold kiss of steel on skin. The back of his throat sat heavy and thick, dragging him down just like the rest of his body. Everything felt so weighted: his mind, his forehead, his chest and his limbs. Everything was weighed down, coaxed by gravity to near collapse.

And it was the first time in as long as he could remember that the impossible thought crossed his mind, brief yet blasphemous; _maybe it wasn’t worth it to feel this tired and heavy._ It was a faint whisper, a taunt in the night, but still he could see that dark cavernous void forcing itself open like a black hole inside of him. It was a lid that needed to stay shut, though; it was a waste of a question. 

Matt did his best to shake that fleeting plea out of the corner of his mind. He opened the medicine cabinet, dexterous fingers feeling for what he sought. It didn’t take long before he located Foggy’s razor, knowing that the man preferred a simple safety razor just as he did. It was easy to extract the blade, easy to pinch it firmly between his thumb and fingers. 

There was just too much inside of him… too much anger, too much fear, too much regret, _too much blood._ It all begged to be spilled. He bared his arm, back teeth grinding with a swell of self-hatred, and dragged the steel across horizontally. Once and then twice, splitting through old scar tissue. 

The blade wasn’t as sharp as he would have liked, it was overused and caught on the skin, but the fire of pain was instant and so was the satisfaction. He sighed deeply, closing his eyes and loving the feeling of air-chilled blood tickling the fine hairs and nerves on his body. Even the smell of blood was a comfort to him, it possessed a lifelong familiarity that he had tied to so many memories. It was like nostalgia, or, the closest thing to nostalgia that Matt knew of, and his mind was wiped white. His senses were temporarily forced to cradle the pain, no longer allowed to wander of their own accord. 

That one moment of brief artificial light quickly turned hollow, though, and it dimmed into a reality where Matt had simply given in- yet again- to his own mental illness. Then the only thing he could feel, the only consolation prize he was left with, was _defeat_. It was a realization that he was still just as fucked up as ever, and he hadn’t even the slightest idea how to stop it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and song lyrics from "Iodine & Iron" by The Veils.


	9. There's a Fragment of Light, but it's Hiding in the Distance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The first time I stitched up my dad…” Matt began with hesitation, “I was terrified. There was blood on the kitchen table, it-it looked black. I remember crying, telling him that I didn’t think I could do it. He… his eyes were nearly swollen shut- he told me that he needed me to. So, I did. I was shaking the whole time. I can still remember how strange it felt, pushing the needle through his skin. It felt… elastic. Like rubber. It wasn’t what I expected.”
> 
> Foggy had to turn away from the sight of the needle tugging at Matt’s skin then, a heavy queasiness twisting inside of him.

_“Clean out your mouth, this is not what it's for_  
_There's still a bloodstain from the spill of the war_  
_Pick up your sorrow, this is not who we are_  
_I won't cry uncle having come so far_

_It's alright, it's alright_  
_It's just blood under the bridge_  
_And I'm too tired to fight_  
_The affliction will be fixed_  
_Oh it's alright, it's alright_  
_It's just blood under the bridge_  
_Put down the knife_  
_and watch the blood under the bridge go by_

_So tie your ragged fuck-ups in a neat little knot_  
_and put it on the shelf behind the picture we bought_  
_I found the way to make the best of a flaw_  
_and realize it's not the end, it's an uncomfortable pause_

_It's alright, it's alright_  
_It's just blood under the bridge_  
_there is a fragment of light_  
_but it's hiding in the distance_  
_It's alright, it's alright_  
_It's just blood under the bridge_  
_Put down the knife_  
_and watch the blood under the bridge go by…”_

 

Matt let the razor blade drop to the floor, his body bogged down by a different kind of heaviness, one that was hollow and achingly empty. He felt that he needed to sit, and so he tucked himself as tight as he could into a corner of the bathroom. 

His hand scrubbed across the thickening blood on his arm, smearing it as if he could somehow erase what he had just done; jaw set tight, mood alternating swiftly between the desire to break something and the urge to sob. Foggy’s rustlings in the other room ricocheted into his ears, and Matt briefly begged his mind to just _let him go_. It was the same as always, though, he couldn’t unravel that thread even if he tried. Thus he was once again forced to straddle a limbo, forever stuck somewhere between what he expected a normal life to be and the prospect of going completely insane. Forever teetering on an edge. 

On the other side of the apartment Foggy was growing increasingly distraught, pacing the living room and wondering if he should just break down the bathroom door. It had been at least two weeks since Matt had intentionally hurt himself, however, and that had to mean _something_. Foggy assured himself that he was just being overprotective, that any minute Matt would come out into the living room, a little tired and smelling of Foggy’s shampoo, but fine. 

Matt had a rough night, though, and Foggy’s own heated words were starting to haunt him. He headed toward the bathroom once and gave up, then a second time. Finally, he could no longer take the silence building on the other side. 

“Matt? Everything okay?” he knocked softly, attempting to sound less concerned than he truly was. The quiet that followed was not the least bit comforting.

Matt remained in his corner, his head in his hands, compulsively raking his fingers through his hair in distress. The thought crashed in and twisted his stomach, _he had to tell Foggy_. Matt’s jaw clenched as he imagined the scene; Foggy shocked, then quiet, then angry. Foggy yelling, maybe even _crying_. He tried to reason with himself that he would just show Foggy the cuts, apologize, and beg him not to leave. Then maybe Foggy would stay, maybe he would forgive him. Only problem was that it felt like their friendship revolved around Foggy forgiving him these days. 

“Matt?” Foggy called again, gradually unveiling the distress in his voice. He knocked louder, his ear pressed against the door. After another awful stretch of silence Foggy gave in and tried the handle- only to find that it was locked. “Matt!” he shouted, his fist now pounding. _“Please Matt, open the door!”_

Matt gulped back some air and then hauled to his feet, his body trembling right down to his fingertips as he felt for the doorknob and unlatched the lock. He was a human earthquake as he slowly pulled open the door, holding his breath whilst he awaited the emotional carnage. Foggy’s heart was racing and his breath hitched, and Matt’s eyes flinched shut in anticipation. 

It was an immediate shock for Foggy, the crimson stain against Matt’s pale skin, smeared down his arm and clotted on his fingertips. Fingerprints of blood streaked on his forehead. _“Oh, Matt…”_ Foggy breathed, pushing the rest of the way into the bathroom. “Matt… _what happened?”_ he fretted, grabbing a hold of Matt’s arm and taking a closer look. His foot landed on something cold, and he lifted it to discover the blood-tarnished strip of steel on the floor. 

“I-I know you don’t want to h-hear this, I know- but, I’m sorry Foggy,” Matt trembled. 

_“Shh…”_ Foggy hushed him, “It’s okay. It’s okay, Matt.” He drew Matt in close, gently holding his arm in one hand. 

_“I’m sorry,”_ Matt begged again, and he couldn’t believe how warm Foggy’s body felt when he pulled him into his arms. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart, It’s okay. Please- just try to calm down. Stop shaking, _please.”_ Foggy soothed. He rocked them back and forth, a desolate slow dance, until he felt Matt relaxing against him. Finally, Matt took a deep albeit shaky breath, and once Foggy was satisfied with how much he had calmed he slowly released the man from his grip. 

Matt heard the sound of running water, and then Foggy was holding his arm again. “Here,” Foggy offered, gently dabbing a warm washcloth over the cuts. Foggy was calm for Matt’s sake, though internally he was destroying himself over the bitter attitude he had held onto all day. He didn’t want to ask himself if it was his fault, even the slightest taste of such an idea nearly urged him to breakdown. 

He dabbed the washcloth at Matt’s forehead then, staring into his red-rimmed, tired eyes. _“It’s okay, Matt…”_ he assured again. “C’mere,” he added, tugging at Matt’s hand until it was under the running water, scrubbing it clean with his own fingers until ribbons of pink disappeared down the drain. 

“It’s not even that bad…” Foggy shrugged with a forced nonchalance, glancing sporadically into the man’s face as he tried to read him. He felt that Matt wanted to speak, that he had something to say, but it was stuck in him, caught at the back of his throat. “Okay?” Foggy quietly tested. 

Matt nodded, perhaps, though Foggy wasn’t entirely that was indeed what he had intended. It was more like a nervous shudder of the head, his eyelashes blinking erratically.

Foggy’s eyes were drawn to the corner of the bathroom, specifically a hand streak of red low on the wall. It made him want to either cry or vomit, maybe both, but instead he led Matt back into the living room. “Let’s go out here…” he suggested, his hand circling gently on the small of Matt’s bare back. 

He sat Matt down at the kitchen table and went to retrieve his first aid kit, shutting off the shower and burying the razor at the bottom of the trashcan en route. The look on Matt’s face was slowly eviscerating him; it was far too reminiscent of that first night weeks ago when Foggy had found him at his place. It was damning, a clear sign to Foggy that he hadn’t accomplished much of anything. 

Still, he pulled a chair up next to Matt and directed his arm out flat on the table, dabbing at the latest incisions with rubbing alcohol. Even if it felt like they were back at square one, he sure as hell wasn’t giving up now. Matt was the one in the middle of all this, Matt was the one actually experiencing whatever hell had come to life in him. There was no way Foggy was going to let him go through that alone. 

Matt was calming, slowly, though the shame and self-hatred he felt was still far too incapacitating. He had wanted to ask Foggy not to leave, had felt the words just on the tip of his tongue- _please don’t go_ \- but they failed to transpire. Foggy didn’t seem to be angry, though Matt felt certain that he must be, he was probably just doing his best to hide it for Matt’s sake. 

Foggy wasn’t angry, though. Not anymore, not at all. Matt was, without a doubt, the most important person in the world to him. It had happened slowly and then suddenly; one day he woke up and realized how far in love he was with Matt Murdock. That had actually been a while ago, before they even built Nelson and Murdock. He knew he loved the man the moment that they left Landman and Zach, probably even before that. Matt had been immediately endearing to him, like home away from home. 

“Hey Matt, I think one of these will be okay, but the other one probably needs a couple stitches… I think. Are you up for that?” Foggy asked, staring down at the ugly gash that threatened to continue to bleed. 

Matt ghosted his fingers briefly over the two fresh incisions, and then slowly nodded. One of them was certainly deeper than he anticipated. 

“Okay, buddy.” Foggy exhaled, sliding the first aid kit closer to him. He prepared to watch Matt stitch himself up, yet again, and he took a deep breath to quell his already swimming stomach. He wasn’t afraid of needles, not usually, nor did he consider himself to be particularly squeamish. 

It had more to do with Matt’s pain; the fact that he had grown so accustomed to living in bloodied, bruised flesh. These days, it was a rare occasion for him to walk around without some sort of wound or injury, self-inflicted or otherwise. Foggy noted how calm Matt became; his hand seemed to steady itself instinctively while he threaded the needle, while he pushed it into the raw edge of the cut.

“The first time I stitched up my dad…” Matt began with hesitation, “I was terrified. There was blood on the kitchen table, it-it looked black. I remember crying, telling him that I didn’t think I could do it. He… his eyes were nearly swollen shut- he told me that he needed me to. So, I did. I was shaking the whole time. I can still remember how strange it felt, pushing the needle through his skin. It felt… elastic. Like rubber. It wasn’t what I expected.”

Foggy had to turn away from the sight of the needle tugging at Matt’s skin then, a heavy queasiness twisting inside of him. 

“I got better at it from there, though. I was proud to be taking care of him… it felt like we could make it, just the two of us, if we took care of each other,” Matt quietly articulated, his eyes dimming as if he were somewhere else. “Foggy…could you please tie this off?” he timidly requested. 

Foggy nodded solemnly, unable to find his words. Even if he did find them, he was afraid that his voice might falter. So, he tied off the stitch in a tentative silence, readily allowing Matt to share with him anything that he wanted to, anything that he needed to. 

Matt couldn’t help but be a little guarded over Foggy’s silence, always instinctively protective of his old man. “Money was always tight, and my dad wasn’t the smartest man, but he really did try his best to take care of me. The odds were kind of against us, I guess…”

Foggy reached out a hand and cupped it over Matt’s then, comforting and encouraging him with the slow, steady caress of his thumb. These occasions when Matt opened up to him, they were rare and beautiful, and he treasured them just as much as he treasured all the facets of their tumultuous relationship. 

“My dad… he was a little rough around the edges,” Matt chuckled, despite the fact that his eyes began to well, “but he was a good man. I know he didn’t deserve-“ he stopped himself, afraid to go any further. Instead, he wet his lips, and then forced them tight, trying to regain control over his facial features that threatened to tense and tremble.

Foggy nodded deeply, hoping that Matt could sense his sincerity. “Matt…” he started, suddenly recalling a question that had troubled him since they had become friends. He cleared his throat, hoping to keep his own voice steady. “You never really told me much about your father’s death… about when he was killed. I mean, I know he was shot... but… how did you find out? Who told you?”

“I heard it.” Matt stated plainly, his brow tensing as if he thought he might have mentioned it to Foggy before.

“You… heard it?” Foggy asked, his chest and stomach suddenly heavy with an icy desolation. 

Matt nodded. “I was waiting for him to come home… I fell asleep at the table. The gun shot was a couple blocks down, but it woke me up. I... I went out looking for him… somehow I just knew.”

It felt as if someone had dropped a brick down Foggy’s esophagus then as he recalled an image of Matt just the night before, his eyes wet and terrified, insisting that he had heard a gunshot. Now it all made sense, and Foggy couldn’t control the pressure pulsing at the back of his eyes, brimming and threatening to spill down his cheeks. He had just always assumed that the police had come to retrieve him. 

_“Oh Matt…”_ Foggy declared, heavy with sorrow, and the look on Matt’s face was like a realization that Foggy had made the connection. His chin crumpled, and he looked away from Foggy, distraught by his own emotion. 

“God… _Matty…”_ Foggy choked, shaking his head and jumping up out of his seat to gather the other man up in his arms. He held Matt’s head to his chest, cradling it, stroking his hair so tenderly that Matt couldn’t help but be moved by the profound sincerity of his affection. He blinked tears onto Foggy’s shirt, holding his breath so that he wouldn’t make a sound.

“I… I love you, so much.” Foggy suddenly announced, awestruck, and it came out like a realization instead of a confession. 

He kissed the top of Matt’s head and Matt was losing his cool, stifled breaths escaping in near pants. His body shook as he tried to suppress his tears. 

_“I love you so much…”_ Foggy said again, whispering into Matt’s hair, rocking him gently in his arms. 

It had been so long since Matt had heard those words that he found himself confused, nearly frightened by their presence. To be loved was a pressure, one that he wasn’t sure he could withstand. He wanted to run, and he wanted to stay. 

_“Foggy…”_ Matt whispered into the man’s shirt, barely audible. He did love Foggy, more than anything, but he was terrified of admitting it aloud, as if that incantation would somehow bring about destruction. In the end, he couldn’t force the words. 

Foggy didn’t feel slighted; he only hoped that Matt could feel the absolute depth of his love, sensing the man might not know exactly what to do with the words alone. He held Matt to his chest until it became like a meditative trance, Matt concentrating on Foggy’s heartbeat and Foggy listening to Matt’s slowly steadying breath. 

It was still relatively early in the evening, though Foggy knew he was still exhausted and he could feel Matt slowly slumping in his arms, dragging heavy with fatigue. It was hard to pull away from that warmth, disappointing to feel the cool air rush in as he slowly extracted himself from the embrace. 

“I think we should both get a lot of sleep.” Foggy said, looking down at Matt. “Like, 12 hours minimum. What do you think?” He sensed a twinge of apprehension from Matt, and truly it was one he felt himself. Nights had not been easy for the two of them. Still, Matt pulled himself to his feet in surrender. 

“To hell with it, you know what? I’m calling this. I think we’ll both sleep better if we just share the bed. What do you think?” Foggy asked, grabbing a hold of Matt’s hand and giving it a gentle squeeze. Matt nodded softly, eyelids pulling heavy. 

“And,” Foggy added, “that’s an open invitation, by the way. If you want, I mean.”

Foggy felt more protective of Matt than ever at that moment, and so he led him by the hand to the bedroom, pulled back the covers for him. He waited for Matt to settle in before taking his side of the bed, facing the man, staring into his exhausted face. Foggy languidly pulled the tips of his fingers through wisps of Matt’s hair, down the stubble on his cheek. The slow and soothing rhythm quickly lulled Matt to sleep, his eyes heavier and heavier until they were shut. 

“Why do you do it, Matt? Why do you have to punish yourself?” Foggy whispered, but Matt was already out. 

He so hoped that Matt would sleep well, that he would be allowed at least a temporary reprieve from the barrage of anger and anxiety. No pain, no nightmares, no heartaches. Foggy fell asleep in the middle of an unfinished prayer, a fervent plea to any god that might be listening, that Matt might be spared from any further suffering. _Enough was enough._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics from "Blood Under the Bridge" by Frightened Rabbit.


	10. You are the Smell Before Rain, You are the Blood in my Veins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy had been right, the chill in the air was renewing. It woke Matt up, pulled him out of his thoughts, made him feel more a part of the world around him. It was now mid-October, and Matt could smell it. The decay of plant life smelled earthy and sweet, heaters everywhere burned dust as they kicked on for the first time that season. Spices lingered in the air with fervor, as every coffee shop and restaurant in town presented their own seasonal rendition of time-worn holiday favorites.
> 
> For the time being he was content to exist in that small window of time; the walk to the store, the rush of cool air prickling at his face, the feeling of Foggy’s fingers pressing confidently into his inner elbow. More than anything, he wanted to forget about the night before, push it as far back in his mind as he could get it. It felt like a dark secret, even if Foggy had been there to witness it all. Even so, he held his head high, determined to not let anyone else catch a glimpse of his weakness.

_“You are calm and reposed_  
_Let your beauty unfold_

_Pale white, like the skin stretched over your bones_  
_Spring keeps you ever close_  
_You are second hand smoke_  
_You are so fragile and thin_  
_Standing trial for your sins_

_Holding onto yourself the best you can_  
_You are the smell before rain_  
_You are the blood in my veins…”_

 

Foggy awoke not to the sound of his alarm, but to the thud of a fist pounding on his front door. The ruckus dragged him out of a deep sleep, one so immersive that it took him a moment to gather his thoughts and assess what the sound actually meant. Beside him Matt was also just waking, also thoroughly confused by the racket. Sounds flooded into his eardrums with a heavy feedback, and then there was a voice accompanying the knocking. 

“Foggy, it’s Karen! Come on, I know you’re in there!” she shouted. 

_“Shit.”_ Foggy cursed, pushing his hair back. He reached for his phone to check the time, only to realize that he had failed to charge the battery in the midst of last night’s tribulations. _“Shit, shit, shit.”_ he hissed.

“What time is it?” Matt asked helplessly. 

“I don’t know, my phone’s dead.” Foggy muttered, stumbling out of the bed to search for a pair of pants. “I’m guessing it’s late as fuck, though.” He dressed quickly, nearly frantic from the sound of Karen’s continuous pounding. “You just stay here, okay? I am not ready to explain to Karen why the hell we are sharing a bed.” 

As soon as the apartment door was flung open Karen was the first to speak. “Foggy, what the hell? I tried calling you, I tried calling Matt- I went to Matt’s place and he didn’t answer-“

“Yeah, I- I’m sorry Karen. My phone died and I slept in…”

“Slept in? It’s noon! What the hell is going on? And I swear to god if you tell me that nothing is wrong I will smack you.” she stated, nudging past him into the apartment. 

“Okay, I slept in _a lot_. Last night was kind of…rough…” he muttered, hoping that she didn’t notice the first aid kit still laid out on the table. 

“A new client came in this morning.” Karen reported austerely, turning to face him. “I told him you were both stuck in court all day. It’s a civil case, but I thought you might at least want to look into it, considering how slow things have been. I had him fill out the preliminary paperwork.” she stated, handed him a manila folder. 

Foggy sighed. “Thank you Karen. As always, you are the best.” 

She shrugged off the praise. “So will I be seeing you and Matt at work tomorrow, or what?”

“Yes, definitely. I promise that we will be there.”

“Well, at least one of you better be. Otherwise I won’t be coming back. Got it?” she threatened, her severity cracking just slightly, slivers of a guarded unhappiness creeping to the surface. 

“I understand.” Foggy nodded. 

“Good. Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” Karen exhaled. She paused just before she left the apartment though, turning back to call, _“goodbye, Matt,”_ over her shoulder. 

Foggy followed her out into the hallway, dumbfounded. “How did you know he was here?” he relinquished. 

“Well, I had my suspicions. If you two were trying to keep it a secret, then you probably should have timed your arrivals into the office a little better. Also, his walking stick is propped in the corner.”

“Right.” Foggy nodded in defeat. “Look, we weren’t necessarily trying to keep it from you… we were just trying to be…”

“selectively honest?” she wearily offered. 

“I was going to say discreet,” Foggy mumbled in return.

“Look, I’m not going to pretend that I’m not a little hurt you felt you had to hide it from me, that you’re a couple- or _whatever-_ it’s none of my business, really,” Karen nodded, “But I deserve to know if I need to be looking for employment elsewhere. Because whatever is going on is certainly not making life at the office any easier.” 

“N-no, were not a _couple_ ,” Foggy stammered, blood instantly rushing to his face. “It’s… it’s really not that simple Karen. Matt… he had a really bad night… we both did. He’s dangerously depressed, and… and honestly, _I’m terrified_. Right now, I’m just trying to figure out how to keep both of our heads above water. And, my phone died, I forgot to charge it last night. I really am sorry, Karen. I promise that I won’t let it happen again…”

The tense disappointment in Karen’s face quieted to a resigned sympathy, and she reached into her purse. “Here,” she said, handing Foggy a business card. “My cousin said this was a good place to start.”

Foggy looked over the card, embossed with the words, _Dr. Dale Dano, MD, Psychiatrist._

“Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, okay?” she quietly stated, finally offering Foggy a small, empathetic smile. He nodded slowly, watching her exit down the hallway. 

When Foggy reentered the apartment, Matt was waiting, standing in the bedroom doorway with a look of spacy defeat. “So, Karen knows I’m crazy now.” he mumbled. 

“You’re not crazy.” Foggy assured, planting himself just in front of the man. “All she knows is that you need a little help. Nothing wrong with that.” he reasoned, taking a moment to smooth down Matt’s remarkable display of bedhead. “Your hair is really impressive right now, by the way. Like modern art.”

the laugh lines at the corner of Matt’s eyes pulled as if he attempted a smile, though it never quite came to fruition. 

“Did you hear the part about the new client?” asked Foggy. 

Matt nodded. “Yeah… I… I’m sorry we slept in and missed it.” 

“Not your fault.” Foggy shrugged. “And, obviously, we needed the sleep. Plus, Karen took care of it, so no harm done. How are you feeling today, by the way?”

Matt didn’t feel like he wanted to jump out of his skin, and so that was a plus. He was, of course, utterly humiliated though. The clarity that followed such a frenzied darkness was always damning; there was never much sunlight to be found in its wake. “I don’t know…” he murmured, and it was the truth. 

Foggy nodded; at least the man had employed real words instead of a vague shrug. “We should eat.” he declared. “I’ll make you pancakes. With real butter, and those organic eggs you like. What d’ya say?” 

Matt pulled his lips into a smile, though this time it was his eyes that didn’t quite follow suit. “Thanks Foggy.” he said, and both of them knew he was no longer referring to the pancakes. 

~~~

After their pancake lunch, Foggy announced that their rations had been depleted; they would have to go out into the world and pick up some groceries. Matt was hesitant, he still felt so raw and unmistakably damaged. He imagined that everyone would be able to smell it on him, that he was struggling with the simple act of existing. That he had to work extra hard to do all the normal, mundane things that came so easy to others. 

But Foggy insisted that it would be good for them to get out of the apartment, and it was true that as of late their lives had mainly followed a strict track from Foggy’s place to the office, and back again. So Matt quietly agreed to go along, dressed, combed his hair, and donned a scarf. 

Foggy had been right, the chill in the air was renewing. It woke Matt up, pulled him out of his thoughts, made him feel more a part of the world around him. It was now mid-October, and Matt could smell it. The decay of plant life smelled earthy and sweet, heaters everywhere burned dust as they kicked on for the first time that season. Spices lingered in the air with fervor, as every coffee shop and restaurant in town presented their own seasonal rendition of time-worn holiday favorites. 

For the time being he was content to exist in that small window of time; the walk to the store, the rush of cool air prickling at his face, the feeling of Foggy’s fingers pressing confidently into his inner elbow. More than anything, he wanted to forget about the night before, push it as far back in his mind as he could get it. It felt like a dark secret, even if Foggy had been there to witness it all. Even so, he held his head high, determined to not let anyone else catch a glimpse of his weakness. 

Foggy was also surprisingly quiet and contemplative; he thought back on the past few weeks, and they had certainly been three long ones. So much had transpired since that first weekend; they had fought, kissed, drew blood, made love, and fought some more. 

If one reflected on the events that had transpired one would almost indisputably consider it all a string of shortcomings for the both of them, one disaster after another. So many raw feelings unearthed, so many boundaries crossed and milestones made. Even then there was a general sadness in Foggy, he hurt for Matt and truly he was terrified. But he just couldn’t look back on the past three weeks as a series of downfalls and disappointments; he held close the fact that their relationship had evolved, deepened. 

Foggy was a romantic, and so the weather was just right to inspire scenes in his mind of him bringing Matt home to his family for the holidays. There had been two years in college, maybe three, where he had done just that. Matt had nowhere to go, and Foggy’s family welcomed him enthusiastically. His mom had grown fond of Matt especially quick. 

This was a different Matt, though. One that was so much more withdrawn, so much darker. Still, he entertained the dream; him and Matt, escaping the chill from outside to enter an oven-warmed kitchen, both of them greeted by Foggy’s mom with a kiss on the cheek. 

Matt would smile just like he used to, and his family would be utterly enchanted. And, Matt would have _two_ slices of pumpkin pie, because it was Thanksgiving after all. Then, the two of them would curl up on the couch and watch/listen to the first annual showing of _A Charlie Brown Christmas_ , just like Foggy had always done as a child, and all the while he would be scheming over what he would get Matt for Christmas. Matt’s favorite part of the cartoon would probably be Linus’ speech at the end, because Matt was a Catholic nerd and genuinely loved sappy things. 

Foggy looked over at Matt then with a furtive smile; the man’s scarf wrapped tight, looking so regal and confident despite the events of the night before. Slowly he let his fingers trickle down Matt’s arm until he was clutching hold of his hand, and he gave it a gentle squeeze.

Matt didn’t hesitate in his step and the look on his face was unchanging. He continued walking onward, tapping his cane. He did squeeze back, though. 

~~~

That night, Foggy put away the blankets and pillows that had been waiting by the couch. They didn’t even really need to talk about it, it had wordlessly been settled that Matt would take him up on his open invitation. The two of them had ended up in that bed frequently enough as it was, and Matt really wasn’t all that comfortable on Foggy’s old couch, anyway. 

For Foggy it was so much more comforting to sleep with Matt close by. Even if he had no control over the man’s mental stability it made him feel safer to know that he would be immediately alerted, should Matt be having a hard time. Most nights, his experience had been a gnawing concern that Matt might sink into a darkness and that he wouldn’t have a clue in the room adjacent. These monsters were invisible and internal, but Foggy still couldn’t help but feel that he could protect Matt, somehow, if he were only given the chance. 

Foggy shut off the lights around the apartment, checked the lock on the door, and entered his bedroom to find Matt stretched out on one side of the bed, eyes shut, arms folded behind his head. The lights were still on in the bedroom, and so it was easy to see that Matt was shirtless, possibly already half asleep. Foggy stood there, breathing and swallowing hard, trying to keep his body calm, until Matt suddenly opened his eyes and cocked his head in his direction. Foggy wasn’t sure if Matt was simply confused by his abrupt silence or if the man was curious about his rapidly rising heartbeat, but either way he knew he had to make some sort of movement. 

“Sorry if I woke you…” said Foggy, swallowing again. 

“You didn’t.” Matt stated. “Just…meditating, kind of.”

“Oh?” asked Foggy, and he realized that his feet had already started a sheepish walk toward the bed, stopping awkwardly to stand just next to Matt. 

Matt nodded and then seemed to be listening, assessing his vitals. His head tilted to the side, eyes glazed over as he focused in on Foggy’s body. “Everything okay?” he nearly whispered, a restrained grin pulling briefly at the corner of his mouth as he propped himself up on his elbows. It was clear to Foggy that Matt probably knew exactly what was sending his vitals on a rampage, and he wasn’t really expecting a verbal answer. 

Foggy nodded, more for himself than anything else, and he found himself leaning forward, gingerly kissing the corner of Matt’s mouth, grazing stubble. He placed another focused kiss softly on the side of his chin, then a third squarely on his lips, mimicking the first kiss that Matt had ever given him. He pulled back to assess Matt’s reaction; an inquisitive raise of the eyebrows that said Matt was curious for more. 

So Foggy knelt his knee down on the bed, leaned in a second time to press into the inviting curve of Matt’s mouth, lips just slightly damp. Matt’s eyes fluttered shut in time with a soft inhale, his hand reaching up until it found its way to the back of Foggy’s neck. It was their first _intentional_ kiss, the first that hadn’t materialized in the midst of a desperate situation. The first one that seemed to count, somehow.

It felt perfectly reasonable, if not somewhat awkward. Both of them felt a deeper drive that pushed past any kindling of doubt, it was both visceral and unexplainable. They were human; they were men. 

Foggy was drawn to Matt with every speck of his being, filled with a gaping love and desire that was miraculous to him, as well as damn confounding. And for Matt, Foggy had just about become his everything, everything that wasn’t dangerous or poisoned. He relied so heavily on just the tenor of the man’s voice, on the familiarity of his heartbeat and how it felt when Foggy said his name. 

Foggy’s palm was delicately pressing into Matt’s cheek then as he encouraged the kiss deeper, slipping in his tongue with an uncertainty that Matt quickly extinguished; he accepted the intimacy with an obvious hunger, tasting Foggy back. It was like a private mantra between them, a ubiquitous hum that connected their bodies. 

_“Wow.”_ breathed Foggy once the kiss had ended. He sat back on the edge of the bed and tried to gather himself, tried to keep his thoughts in a straight line. Matt was reclining there before him, propped up on a pillow, half naked like some Roman hero in repose. The blood in Foggy’s body was frenetic; it coursed through him every which way, causing his skin to warm and tingle. He found himself reaching out a cautious hand, fingertips touching down on the well-formed nooks of the other man’s abdomen. Matt wet his lips in response, his head resting back just slightly as if he were inviting, surrendering. 

Matt wasn’t supposed to want it, the physical contact. Stick had made being alone look easy, simple. He had been warned time and again that it was dangerous to rely on others, let alone corporeal affection. But Matt wanted to be touched. He _needed_ Foggy to touch him. He couldn’t help but lean in like a stray; he was drawn to the warm energy, to the promise of comfort and safety. With each small caress he craved just one more.

And, Foggy’s fingers felt so good on him; the subtle etch of fingerprints, striking up a warm trail on his skin like the head of a matchstick. He wanted to beg for more, but he didn’t want to be greedy. Foggy’s hand continued to massage, circling over flesh and muscle until goosebumps formed, until Matt’s nipples hardened- until Foggy could see Matt stiffening in his pants. 

Foggy took a deep breath, suddenly shaky with arousal. He pulled his knees up onto the bed to turn all of his attention towards Matt’s body, fingertips tickling shyly against the fabric waistband. Every single atom in him only wanted to give Matt the pleasure he deserved, the pleasure he rarely let himself have.

Decisively, he allowed himself to tug at the band of Matt’s sweatpants, dragging them down until he could clearly see the smoldering slope of Matt’s chiseled hips to his lower belly, dark hair just beginning to peak out. He felt a deep, hungry pulse inside of himself, an instinctual urge. 

His thumbs circled Matt’s hipbones, caressed down the concave hollow of his hip, Matt’s abdomen tightening reflexively. Foggy took a moment to glance up at the man; his mouth lightly parted, eyelashes fluttering, the beginnings of a slow blush gracing his cheeks.

Foggy’s thumb caressed again across the sensitive skin of his belly, and Matt jolted under him. “Hey, I’m ticklish there.” he divulged in a low, alluring chuckle. 

“S’that so?” Foggy enquired, grinning to himself before he leaned forward and brushed his lips back and forth against the same spot, eyes directed up toward Matt to watch the playful grin slowly evaporate from his face, morphing into something a little more intense. Matt’s eyes dimmed as Foggy began to press light, open-mouthed kisses along his lower abdomen, gathering small tastes of the man’s skin on the tip of his tongue. 

A restrained groan escaped Matt’s lips, and he was growing harder and harder just inches from Foggy’s face, the rigid length flexing automatically with each peck. Foggy wouldn’t even allow himself to second guess a thing, he instinctively moved from Matt’s abdomen to the swell in his pants, pushing kisses against the tensing fabric, nuzzling with the tip his nose. 

Matt exhaled as if he had been holding his breath, his head dropping back onto the pillow and his eyes flickering shut. Foggy was downright drunk off the fact that he could elicit such a response _from Matt, of all people,_ and it was clearer than anything else to him then; He wanted Matt, so badly. More than anything he wanted to offer him bliss, no matter how fleeting. 

There was just the slightest hint of nervous energy somewhere inside of him, vibrating at the back of his mind, but he didn’t have the attention for it. Everything about the man was beautiful to him; the stubble that dappled his jawline, the way his hair fell, the curve of his lips, the light in his eyes. 

It had only been _a few days_ since their last impromptu sexual venture, but it felt like it had been much longer, given all that had occurred in that small span of time. For a brief moment, Foggy had been able to distract Matt from the pain and fear, make him feel only pleasure. He wanted so much to achieve that again. 

Foggy inhaled slowly then and slipped his fingertips just under Matt’s waistband, stopping to glance furtively up at him. “Is this okay, Matt?” he whispered. 

Matt licked his lips again, allowed himself to nod. To hell with whether or not it was the responsible thing to do. 

So Foggy held his own breath as he gently tugged the waistband down, let it slide smoothly over the muscle of Matt’s thighs. He couldn’t help but suck in a rush of air at the sight; Matt Murdock, fully naked before him, not just in accidental fleeting glimpses but for Foggy to actually _see_. For him to adore, touch, taste. 

The fresh scar on his upper thigh caught Foggy’s gaze, standing out from the rest as it still looked so red and angry. He leaned over to give it a gentle kiss, not wanting to offend the flesh that looked sensitive and raw. He located another, kissed another, kissed all the scars he could find on Matt’s thighs and hips, taking the time to acknowledge and forgive each little demonstration of internal pain that split the surface.

Matt had tensed at first, but he quickly melted into the soft pressure of Foggy’s lips, losing all of his thoughts and concerns in a wash of desire. There was some apprehension, but the fear was miniscule; he wanted Foggy to really see him. He wanted to be vulnerable, truly revealed. 

Then Foggy had made his way to the source of Matt’s fever, pressing tender kisses into pink, sensitive flesh, warm breath crashing against fine nerves and sending electrical currents right to Matt’s spine. His lips gingerly parted to taste and Matt couldn’t help but shudder under the remarkable warmth of Foggy’s tongue. 

Matt groaned in the back of his throat, his hands instinctively reaching out for Foggy’s hair, fingers softly tangling in, massaging his scalp and following the steady bob of his head. He felt weakened despite the mounting friction of carnal energy, swallowed up by primitive want. He could smell Foggy’s arousal, taste it. Each and every little flourish of Foggy’s tongue was quickly pushing him closer and closer to the edge, and he fought the urge to thrust, abdomen clenching, heels digging into the bedsheets. 

Foggy wasn’t really sure of his technique, but he did his best to read Matt’s body. He could feel the man tensing beneath him, hips swiveling languidly as he neared climax. Foggy took every chance he could to glance up at Matt, to steal a glimpse of the beautiful look on his face; jaw clenching, eyes screwed shut, cheeks flushed. 

Matt’s hands were so often his eyes, and so he caressed his fingers down the sides of Foggy’s face, around to the base of his skull where he could feel the muscles tense with each draw and thrust. Foggy’s mouth was so warm and wet, the smell of his skin so good, that it was too much, then. 

_“Oh Foggy, Fuck!”_ Matt growled, shuddering with release and hips jolting without restraint. Foggy held on tight as Matt came, pinning down his shaking body and riding out the violent orgasm with him. The pleasure was staggering and torturous, the most beautiful kind of brutal. 

It was incredible to Foggy- a revelation- that he could be the one to get Matt there, yet again. Never before had he felt so intoxicated, so gratified by his effect on another. It was almost like a badge of honor. 

Matt panted and whimpered, his body slowly relaxing under Foggy’s weight. He felt stunned, nearly dazed by his own body’s reaction. He wanted to reach for Foggy, kiss him senseless, return the intimacy, but Foggy had rested his head down on Matt’s lower abdomen, his breath already slowing and steadying as if he could simply fall asleep there. Matt couldn’t help but follow suit, the warmth of fatigue tugging at his eyelids as he made a promise to himself that he would return the favor as soon as possible. 

Foggy drifted to sleep with his head nestled in the soft slope of Matt’s belly, utterly gratified even as thoughts of reality threatened to trickle back in. He remembered the business card that Karen had given him, recalled that he would have to once again bring up the notion of therapy to Matt. 

That was something that could wait until the morning, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics taken from "The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot" by Brand New.


	11. Dazed in the Final Count

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only thing that Foggy knew for sure about this psychiatrist was that Karen’s cousin had sworn by him, and that his name was Dale Dano. Matt was completely unreadable as he sat next to Foggy in the cab, and Foggy did his best to convince himself that he would _not_ judge the man they were about to meet by his first name alone. At least there had been a referral; without it Foggy would have sooner pulled out his hair than sort through the countless number of shrinks in New York City.
> 
> The building was quaint enough, old but definitely expensive; the kind of place that intentionally lulled its visitors into a sense of security through false nostalgia. Foggy noted to himself that the waiting room smelled strongly of wood polish, and so he couldn’t help but wonder what Matt was picking up and if he was finding it just as suffocating. In the corner was a white noise machine, pumping out a mixture of what sounded like rushing air and trickling water. Foggy looked around the room, studied the paintings, and they were laughable.

_"An unwanted son pulls rank in the sky_  
_The boxer isn't finished, he's not ready to die_  
_I'm attracted to the light, I am attracted to the heat_  
_It's a violent night, there are boxers in the streets_

_Damn this place_  
_Makes a boy out of me_  
_The ring meets my face_  
_I'm a fallen oak tree_

_Dazed in the final count_  
_Dazed in the final count_  
_Dazed in the final count…”_

 

Foggy neglected to bring up the topic of therapy in the morning. He told himself it wasn’t the best time, not when they were just about to head into the office. All day he kept the business card in his pocket, absentmindedly dragging his thumb across its surface when he had moments of time to think to himself. He thought again and again about what Matt had told him, about the state-issued counselor that came to see him in the orphanage, the one who had concluded he was insane. It wasn’t easy to just bring up the subject, not when he had witnessed the fear in Matt’s eyes once already. 

It felt like willfully torturing him. Still, Foggy knew that wasn’t the reality of it all. He wasn’t revisiting the idea of therapy for his own damn pleasure; in fact, he _hated_ the idea. He found himself so uneasy over the notion of bringing Matt to a stranger that there had been small moments over the course of the day- admittedly fleeting ones- where he caught himself beginning to reason against it. But, if there was a chance that it could benefit Matt, then that meant it was worth a shot. 

It was on his mind all day, but it never seemed to feel like the right time. By the end of the day he realized that there never really was a good time to force a panic attack on your best friend, and so after they finished dinner he finally retrieved Dr. Dano’s business card from his pocket. 

“Hey Matt,” Foggy started, and his voice came out rough. Matt was, of course, immediately alerted to his tone. “I want to talk to you about something… but, you’re not going to like it,” he warned, shaking his head.

Matt swallowed and his jaw instinctively clenched. He did his best to ignore all of the thoughts that began to spiral and ricochet through his mind, the voice at the back of his head that shouted, _oh god, what now?_ Cautiously, he nodded for Foggy to continue. 

“Karen gave me this…” Foggy admitted with a sigh, slowly pushing the small piece of cardstock across the table. Its font was so impressively embossed that he knew Matt would be able to feel the letters for himself. 

Matt appeared at first suspicious, then slightly angered, not unlike one who had just caught whispers of his own impending intervention. He hesitated before he felt for the card, picked it up slowly as if he already found it dangerous and offensive. If Foggy had been unable to speak openly about whatever he was now bringing up, then it couldn’t possibly be a good thing. His hesitation practically radiated from across the table as it was.

Matt carefully ran his fingers over the surface, his stomach lurching into his throat as the words compiled in his head. He exhaled discreetly, realizing that he had been holding his breath, and set the card back on the table. Finally, he forced himself to look back up in Foggy’s direction, still wordless and waiting. 

His expression was like a deathblow to Foggy; a quiet, miserable compliance laced with a tinge of betrayal. Like the eyes of a kicked puppy. “I know, Matt.” Foggy mumbled, averting his own eyes back down to the table. “I know we talked about this already, but, I think… considering the other night… it’s time to talk about it again.”

Matt tightened his lips in response, his whole body tensing with just the threat of the conversation. 

The silence forced Foggy to glance back up at the man across the table, his shoulders slouching. “Matt, please don’t go all quiet on me like that…” he begged, “please, just talk to me about this.”

Matt licked his lips nervously, his hands fidgeting on the table. “What do you want me to say, Foggy? I-I can’t talk about all of it… I can’t tell this guy about my abilities, about Daredevil… w-we’d have to lie. Both of us.” 

Foggy slowly nodded, truly just relieved that Matt had spoken up. That was a start. “Okay, so we don’t bring that stuff up. What if we just focus on the recent issues… the depression, the anxiety, the… _the cutting…”_ his voice dropped off at the end; the words still felt foreign and traumatic on his lips. 

Matt felt himself slowly slump in his chair, a weary and all too familiar defeat weighing in. There were times when Foggy seemed to understand him, and for those rare and beautiful moments he was always grateful. Most of the time, however, it was clear that he didn’t, couldn’t. Matt didn’t hold it against him; he never asked for anyone to understand him. The only difference with Foggy was that he never seemed to need to. In the end, it didn’t seem to matter to him, he simply stuck around regardless. Based on that alone Matt would always hold an ever-present hope that they could make their friendship work. 

“It’s all the same, Foggy,” Matt admitted in a quiet exhale. “And, none of its new. Not really.” 

Foggy felt his own brow tense; it was the most introspective thing that Matt had ever said to him. Deep down, he knew it was true, too. It was all connected in one messy, hopeless knot of guilt and fear, rage and self-hatred. 

“I just… I’m worried that we're not doing so well, just the two of us.” Foggy confessed. “I want to help, but I don’t know that I am, or that I can…”

Matt grew quiet again, though he appeared to be taking in Foggy’s words. He hadn’t yet tuned him out, at least. Still, he looked guilt-ridden, and he concentrated his unfocused gaze back down toward the table. 

He wanted to tell Foggy that he was helping, that his very existence was an undeserved miracle. He was reluctant to give the man false hope, though. 

“Look, we don’t have to make a decision right now,” Foggy quickly added. “Just, think it over. Okay?” 

He once again pocketed the business card, deciding that he would leave Matt to himself so that he wouldn’t feel too pressured. One final thought occurred to him before he left the table, though, and he extended his hand to gently grasp Matt’s cheek, “Matt, I just want you to know… that I know you’re afraid. And, that’s okay, but… _you don’t have to be._ No one is going to call you crazy or have you committed, I wouldn’t let that happen. Back when you were a kid- in the orphanage- you had to take care of yourself. But, now, I’m here to protect you.”

Matt looked surprised, almost like he had been slapped. He didn’t even nod; he just let his bottom lip drop, right before he recovered it. Foggy gave a quick nod as if the man had responded, and then he let him be. 

Matt didn’t go to bed right when Foggy did, either. It made Foggy nervous, but still he was determined to let Matt keep some shred of his own space in the haze of their still confusing arrangement. 

Foggy couldn’t sleep, though, not without knowing for sure that Matt was okay. Over and over he resisted the urge to just get up, check on the man, until finally Matt was quietly navigating the bedroom about an hour later. Deftly he undressed, made his way to the bed, slipped under the covers. 

Deep down Foggy knew that Matt could tell when he was truly sleeping, but he found himself faking it regardless. He focused in on the quiet that filled the room after Matt had settled in, and in the back of his mind he knew Matt was probably focusing in on him, too. And, not even a minute went by before Matt was slowly, sheepishly scooting in closer, nuzzling into his back. 

He felt Matt’s forehead press gently against his shoulder blade, warm rushes of air ghosting his skin with each breath that he took. _“I’ll go to the therapist.”_ Matt relented in a whisper. 

~~~

The only thing that Foggy knew for sure about this psychiatrist was that Karen’s cousin had sworn by him, and that his name was Dale Dano. Matt was completely unreadable as he sat next to Foggy in the cab, and Foggy did his best to convince himself that he would _not_ judge the man they were about to meet by his first name alone. At least there had been a referral; without it Foggy would have sooner pulled out his hair than sort through the countless number of shrinks in New York City. 

The building was quaint enough, old but definitely expensive; the kind of place that intentionally lulled its visitors into a sense of security through false nostalgia. Foggy noted to himself that the waiting room smelled strongly of wood polish, and so he couldn’t help but wonder what Matt was picking up and if he was finding it just as suffocating. In the corner was a white noise machine, pumping out a mixture of what sounded like rushing air and trickling water. Foggy looked around the room, studied the paintings, and they were laughable. 

“There’s some bad artwork on the walls that you should be glad you can’t see…” he described quietly to Matt. “An illustration of some ducks… and some sort of abstract painting in ugly pinks and grays. It’s like… Pollock on Xanax.” 

Both of them knew that Matt had no idea what Pollock’s work looked like, but he cracked a small grin nonetheless, and that made Foggy feel a little more at ease himself. 

“I didn’t know you were such an avid art critic, Foggy.” Matt muttered back, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a smirk. 

“I took a couple classes to impress the ladies.” Foggy shrugged. He turned to Matt then, studying him. “How are you doing?” he asked, his voice quieter. 

“I’m okay so far…” Matt responded quietly, shifting a little in his seat. “I think maybe we should break that noise machine, though…”

“Yeah, it’s kind of making me have to pee…” Foggy agreed, just as the door opened down the hall and a man walked into view. 

“Welcome, I’m Dr. Dano,” the man greeted, his hand vaguely outstretched for either one of them to shake. 

Foggy jumped out of his chair and grabbed the man’s hand first, giving it a quick, friendly jiggle. “Hi, I’m Foggy Nelson, I’m the one who called you. And, this is Matt Murdock…” Foggy gestured behind him. Dr. Dano, like so many others before him, extended his hand to Matt then, only to be shot down by a nod. 

“Nice to meet you,” Dano said, tucking his previously outstretched hand into his pocket. “Let’s head to the back, shall we?” 

Matt stood and gently grasped Foggy’s elbow, allowing him to lead the way. Foggy couldn’t help but analyze the doctor’s appearance as they followed him; he was the epitome of neutral. His hair was somewhere between black and brown, perfectly clean cut. His clothing, shoes, and glasses all appeared to be both expensive and yet purposefully dull, as if his goal was to neither insult nor inspire anyone, to be wholly non-threatening. Somehow, there was still something threatening about it. Foggy told himself that this was probably just due to the fact that he was entrusting this man with _Matt for god’s sake_ , the single most important person in the world to him, and thus he was simply overeager to figure the man out. 

“There’s a chair to your left,” Foggy muttered to Matt, planting himself in the seat adjacent. He handed Dr. Dano the paperwork that he had filled out for Matt, sparse though it was. The family history was left nearly empty, as was Matt’s own history of illness. The man never really went to the doctor, and so much of it was speculation, anyways. 

Dano was silent as he looked over the packet of information, his brow temporarily furrowing. “Alright, Mr. Nelson, why don’t you go ahead and have a seat out in the waiting room. We’ll be about 45 minutes.” said Dr. Dano. 

“He can stay.” Matt responded with a polite, tight-lipped grin. 

Foggy paused halfway out of the chair, his hands gripping the wooden arms. He looked at Matt, and then the psychiatrist. “Is… that okay?” he asked. 

“Sure. Whatever you’d like to do, Mr. Murdock,” replied Dano, his gaze focused on Matt only. 

Foggy lowered himself back into the chair. In his mind this was probably for the best; now he could monitor Matt and the stranger closely. 

The man across the room then clicked his pen and crossed his legs. “Okay, so this is what I’d like to do. First, we’ll discuss what brings you in here today. Then, I’d like to briefly talk about your background. How does that sound?” 

Foggy glanced over at Matt, noting with his own muffled anxiety that Matt already looked to be tightening in his seat. Matt licked his lips and gave a vague nod. 

“Good. So, what’s been going on?” asked the doctor with a fake “pal-like” informality that made even Foggy uncomfortable. 

Matt shifted in his chair, his heartrate already increasing exponentially. _Why the hell had he agreed to this?_ He tried to find the words, any words, and listened anxiously as the man across the room grabbed a small notepad. The longer he sat there, though, the longer the doctor waited with his pen ready, the more Matt felt that he couldn’t possibly share any personal information with this stranger that smelled of PERC-soaked wool and Listerine. 

Foggy was also turned toward him, waiting. Matt could hear Foggy’s heartrate pick up, his breath long and deep as if he were trying to keep himself calm. Briefly, Matt wondered if it would be such a bad thing for him to get up and leave them there, but it was then that Foggy interjected. 

“He… he’s been…hurting himself.” Foggy answered awkwardly, and the doctor’s attention snapped over to him. Matt rubbed his knuckle against his lips with unease, grateful for the brief respite from what he could only imagine were scrutinous eyes. 

There was a terrible pause in the room, and after a moment’s hesitation Matt heard Dr. Dano scribble something down on his notepad. “Okay.” he affirmed to himself coolly. “How so, Matt?” Dano asked, directing the conversation away from Foggy again. “Are we talking about self-harm, cutting?” 

The words made Matt queasy, wholly ashamed. He tightened his lips and Foggy looked at him, and then back at the doctor again. “Yes...” Foggy answered for Matt a second time. Once again, the doctor paused before he took his notes. What he was writing, however, seemed to Matt to be far too long for what Foggy had shared. 

“Matt,” Dr. Dano sighed, “It really is best if _you_ talk to me. I would get a much better idea of how you’re feeling if you tell me about it in your own words. Mr. Nelson here may be a good friend, but he can’t truly know how you feel. Only you know how you feel.” 

Matt felt the blood rushing from his head, emptying into his toes and causing a fleeting vertigo. He felt trapped; shrouded in a sudden panic only made worse by the fact that the doctor spoke to him as if he were a child. As if he were a frightened boy again, falling apart in an orphanage. He fidgeted with his fingers in his lap, then bit his thumbnail, then placed his hands back in his lap with an unsteady exhale. He was unraveling, and quick. 

_“You okay, Matt?”_ Foggy leaned in and whispered, his voice rich with concern. Matt forced a nod. _“you sure?”_ Foggy urged again. 

“Is this conversation making you anxious?” Dr. Dano interrupted with a clinical tone, another bright waft of Listerine rushing across the room. He waited for Matt to respond, but then chalked his delay up to a yes. “That’s fine, we can talk about something else for a little while. Why don’t we talk a little bit about your family history?”

Foggy had been hopeful, always the optimist, but now his stomach dropped to his knees. _What fresh hell was this?_ He expected Matt to simply get up then, charge out of the room, maybe assault Dale with his walking stick. 

To his surprise, however, Matt stayed put. After a strenuous inhale and exhale, Matt finally spoke up. “My father was a boxer…” he answered, his voice so hushed that Foggy leaned in closer, waiting, his mouth slightly ajar. 

“Ah, I see.” Dano responded casually, scribbling away at his notepad. “Retired?” he asked.

“He died when I was ten.”

“Oh, sorry to hear that.” was the doctor’s blasé, obligatory response. “How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?” 

“He was murdered.” Matt quickly muttered, and the silence that followed said that Dr. Dano was not really ready for that response. He skipped a beat, writing quickly, and then said, “I’m sure that was very difficult for you.”

Matt shrugged; _Difficult_ certainly wasn’t the right word, but there really was nothing to say to such a comment. Did the man expect him to agree with him, give the affirmative?

Foggy swallowed, feeling slightly queasy. To be fair to Dr. Dano, he had no way of _knowing_ what sort of danger zone he had waltzed into. 

“And what about your mother?” Dano continued on. 

Matt’s jaw clenched; he paused and then shook his head. 

“He... he doesn’t know…” Foggy gently clarified. 

Dano took some more notes and then tapped his pen on his notepad while he thought to himself. “Tell me, Matt, when you were little, do you remember how you felt about your father’s job? About the boxing?” 

“Um… I…” Matt started. _What the hell did that have to do with anything?_ “…he didn’t have the best record, but I was proud of him, I suppose…” 

Dr. Dano nodded, filling the spaces of silence with the sounds of a ballpoint pen scratching paper. “Being around that sort of environment, I would imagine that could make a child feel anxious at times, maybe even a little unsafe. Do you remember ever feeling that way?” 

Slowly but steadily, Matt’s panic was being overwhelmed by a new sensation; one akin to anger. 

“No.” Matt snapped, the pale in his face beginning to flush red. “I didn’t.” So what if the neighbors who fought upstairs occasionally frightened him when his dad was at a late match? So what if he worried that one day his father wouldn’t get back up, wouldn’t come home? The day he finally didn’t wasn’t because of the job itself, it was his own fault for guilting his father into beating Creel. 

“Okay,” Dano tried to soothe, sensing the stricken nerve. Still, he kept on with the subject, apparently sure he had struck gold. “Did you watch your dad spar often?” 

Matt hesitated, thoroughly not wanting to give the man whatever he thought he was looking for. It felt like a trap. “I… I watched _-listened-_ to most of his matches. I was with him when he trained sometimes…” he could feel Dr. Dano nodding. 

“Do you recall having any issues with anxiety as a child?” he asked. 

“Um… a little, I suppose. I-I was in an accident when I was nine…” 

“What about depression?” The doctor probed, writing and writing, apparently writing a book about Matthew Murdock’s childhood. 

Matt was silent, and then just shook his head. He didn’t mean no, necessarily; it was more of a refusal to answer any more questions.

Still, Dr. Dano took it as a no. “Not even after your accident?” he pushed on. 

Matt just shook his head again. Foggy had grown so quiet; if it hadn’t been for his rapid heartbeat Matt might have forgotten he was right there next to him. 

“Okay…” Dano quietly relented. “And, would you consider yourself to have any issues with anger?” 

Now Matt’s mouth shut tight, his jaw and fists quietly grinding. He would rather throttle the man then answer any more of his questions, and yet he suddenly heard the answer, _“Yes,”_ and it was his own voice, glaring and spiteful. 

The bite of his tone filled the room, chilled the air, and Foggy was holding his breath. There was a pause, and then the incessant scribble of the pen continued. A hand discreetly rested on Matt’s arm, a quiet plea from Foggy for Matt to check his temper. Matt took a deep breath, willed his rage to subside to a more manageable level, if just for Foggy’s sake. 

“Tell me, have you experienced any panic attacks recently, Mr. Murdock?” the doctor asked, and then there was the slightest hesitation present at the back of his voice, though he had no way of knowing the real damage Matt could inflict on him. 

Matt’s demeanor continued to be a mix of anger and vacancy, and so Dano felt compelled to elaborate, to pull some sort of information out of him.

“Racing heart, difficulty catching your breath, dizziness, nausea, anything of that nature?” he detailed. 

Matt felt Foggy nod discreetly next to him, and so he forced himself to nod as well. 

“Mhm,” Dr. Dano chirped to himself. “And how often would you say that these episodes occur? Once a week? Twice a week? Once a day?”

Foggy did the math himself, concluding aloud, “Lately… several times a week, I’d say.” Dr. Dano took his word for it, apparently having given up on encouraging Matt to answer his own questions.

Dr. Dano seemed to think to himself for a little while, his finger tapping on the desk, and then he asked, “have you had any experience with anti-depressants, Mr. Murdock?”

Matt just shook his head slowly, his jaw still tight, while Foggy glanced back and forth between them. 

“I think you might find a general anti-depressant/anti-anxiety medication beneficial. I’m going to write you a prescription, a relatively low dose to start off with. If all goes well, we can talk about increasing it in a couple of weeks. I would also recommend you seek out regular counseling, as most people find the combination to be highly successful.”

Foggy found himself admittedly confused; he had expected something more along the lines of counseling from Dr. Dano himself. Not just a prescription, which Dano did then scribble out and hand to him. It took so much to get the two of them there… he couldn’t help but feel like they had suffered through the appointment needlessly, only to end up with a referral for a substance to pour over Matt’s symptoms, and, once again, the suggestion of therapy. 

But then Dr. Dano was shaking Foggy’s hand and escorting them out of the office. Matt himself looked dazed and defeated as they walked toward the elevator in the hallway, and he stood leaden and quiet as they awaited its arrival. Foggy glanced sideways at him, tried to read his eyes from the narrow space behind his glasses. 

From his viewpoint- from the tight-lipped, tired look on Matt’s face- he couldn’t help but feel like he let Matt down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics from "The Boxer" by Editors.


	12. Or Would You Rather Suffer in Silence?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy’s throat tightened, his chest aching. Somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Matt might be fearfully awaiting his departure, that this whole time, day by day, Matt might be anticipating the moment in which Foggy had enough, the day in which he would abandon him just like everyone else had. To Matt, that was simply what people did. Now, it all seemed so horrifically obvious.
> 
> He didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if words alone could ease Matt’s fears. He would just have to show him, then. “C’mere, Matt…” Foggy whispered, tugging softly at the man’s arm until Matt was lying on his chest, wrapped up tightly in his arms. “You clearly have no idea how much I love you..." he uttered, "and, I promise that I'm going to show you, _I'm not going anywhere."_

_“Come back, show your face_  
_Don't you see_  
_You're too good for this place_  
_Can we leave_  
_It's not your fault, what they say_  
_Don't believe._

_Or would you rather suffer in silence_  
_And defeat_  
_Or would you rather suffer in silence_  
_Needlessly._

_Ah come on, show the way_  
_I'll believe_  
_Welcome back, you've been away_  
_How's it been._

_Or would you rather suffer in silence_  
_And defeat_  
_Or would you rather suffer in silence_  
_Needlessly._

_Wake up. It's your love calling…”_

 

“Well that sucked…” announced Foggy, finally breaking the silence that had followed them back to the apartment. He softly closed the front door and turned to Matt to gauge his response; a weighty, tilted nod, as if he were too tired to hold his head upright. 

Matt had told himself repeatedly that he was overreacting, but he couldn’t help but feel _violated_ by the conversation he had had with Dr. Dano. He felt like curling into himself even more than before, hiding away from all the prying eyes out there, even Foggy's. He hadn’t bothered to say a word on the way back to the apartment, he was all talked out. Deep down he knew he should, that Foggy was waiting for him to say _anything at all_ , but he didn’t even feel like trying. To hell with social etiquette, for the time being, at least. 

He was just suddenly so drained from that interrogation that all he wanted to do was get back to the one closest thing he still had to a refuge and go to sleep. A couple days ago, he and Foggy had retrieved some of the silk sheets from his apartment, and that made the idea even harder to resist. Really, in his silence, he had only been counting down the minutes until he could do precisely that. 

So, while Foggy took some time to brew up a cup of coffee, Matt quietly drudged into the bedroom and hid himself under a cocoon of blankets, still in his coat. The sheets still clung to the scent of his place, of himself, and so that was particularly comforting. Matt lie face down on the mattress, cheek pressed into the reassuring silk, close to the edge of the bed. He could almost imagine that he was back at his own apartment, secure and alone, if it weren’t for the fact that Foggy’s place sounded so damn different. 

He gave up on the silly notion of pretending, and instead listened to the couple upstairs who always seemed to fight. It concerned him and he found himself regularly checking in; there was a discomfiting vehemence in the man’s voice that was all too familiar, and Matt was secretly waiting for the guy to cross that line. _When he did…_ Matt thought, his back teeth gritting. 

_Goddamn it, how many times do I have to tell you?_ bellowed the voice from upstairs. Matt felt his fists impulsively clench, nails digging into the palms of his hands. 

“You doing okay?” Foggy suddenly called from the doorway, and then a hand was routing through the layers of comforter and quilt to locate Matt’s face. 

“Yeah, Foggy…” Matt breathed, unwanted cool air rushing in against his exposed forehead and neck. “Just…tired.” 

Foggy nodded to himself, and noted that Matt was still wearing his coat. “Hey, at least you managed to get your shoes off, that’s good I guess.” he forced a feeble chuckle. 

_You can’t talk to me like that!_ Interrupted the man above them, though it was only Matt who was aware of the intrusion. Matt swallowed, fought the urge to snap at Foggy and beg for seclusion. 

Turns out he didn’t really have to. 

“You… you go ahead and relax. I’ll leave you alone,” said Foggy, sensing that Matt’s patience had been rubbed a little too raw. He surrendered the corner of blanket that he had pulled back, setting it just short of the man’s face to ensure that he wouldn’t suffocate, should he fall asleep. 

Matt felt a tinge of guilt, but he was also a little troubled by the fact that he didn’t really feel that much guilt at all. At least, not enough to call Foggy back into the room and give him what he wanted; a reassurance that he hadn’t completely despised the experience and that he didn’t blame Foggy for how the appointment had transpired. More than anything, he was relieved that he didn’t have to talk about it. 

He felt exhaustion and anger, and those emotions were taking up enough space in his ribcage as it was. He didn’t want to direct it at Foggy, especially the anger. He knew that the man was only trying to help, and that it hadn’t been a pleasant experience for him either. But there was no part of Matt, as far as he was aware, that wished to seek out therapy. 

In his mind, that had all been for Foggy. He would do anything to keep Foggy around, make Foggy happy. And, he had known for a long time that his regular, day-to-day sacrifices as a friend were meek and pathetic. Foggy was the clear giver in the relationship; Matt was the recipient of unwarranted grace, as well as the provider of tired apologies. 

So, he made a conscious decision, when he could, to give into the big things for Foggy’s sake. Otherwise, he would never have spoken to a shrink again. It hadn’t gone quite as bad as he could have imagined it, but it had left him distraught. This always left a bad taste in his mouth; he loathed the feeling of being distraught over something that appeared so minuscule and pathetic on the surface. _Next time, I need to be stronger,_ he told himself. 

He especially hated that Dr. Dano had sensed his distress, like a predator. _Is this conversation making you anxious?_ he so readily inquired. To Matt this was no different than facing the enemy while in the armor; he would have to work even harder to project only confidence and brutality. Otherwise, they smelled your fear.

Already Matt could tell that he was overheating under the blankets, wrapped up in his coat, but he didn’t care. It felt somewhat nice, that heavy, smothering heat. He found himself slipping further and further into sleep, still taking tabs on the verbal assault that took place above him. 

_Say it again, I fucking dare you._ growled the bully upstairs.

_Try it._ Matt thought, dissipating into a daydream, an image projected at the back of his mind of himself slipping into the window the next floor up, wrapping his fingers around that man’s throat until the bastard lost consciousness. Just before Matt completely submitted to slumber, the man in his hands transformed, and it was Dale Dano looking up at him with desperate eyes.

_All I need is a reason,_ whispered the anger inside of him, just before he completely slipped into oblivion. 

~~~

Foggy found himself slumped forward on the couch, equally tired. Guilt was running rampant, though, and he couldn’t help but revisit some of the questions that had been asked, some of the restrained looks on Matt’s face. That bite in his voice when he declared that he was, indeed, an angry person, still gave Foggy a chill. 

It was fairly obvious that he had anger issues, once you saw him in his entirety, but he had never heard Matt admit it aloud before. The amount of anger he must feel on a daily basis, to be able to recognize that in himself…

Foggy’s chest forced a slow sigh. He didn’t know what to do with that side of Matt, really. That Matt he was slightly afraid of. It wasn’t something he saw often, so he hadn’t really gathered much experience on how to deal with an infuriated Matthew Murdock. Up until recently It had only been in unsettling flashes, mere glimpses. Matt kept it well hidden, but Foggy knew it was there, probably even more frequently than the man let on. 

He saw it in Matt after their quarrel, at the punching bag in Fogwell’s gym. He saw it in Matt’s eyes when he described his first night out to beat up that child rapist. He saw Matt holding back that anger when he talked about taking down Fisk. And, he saw it the night Matt returned through his kitchen window, disheveled and panting like a wild animal, eyes so dilated that they appeared black in the darkness.

Worst of all, though, was that Foggy couldn’t help but dwell on what the doctor had said, that most people find the combination of therapy and medication highly successful. While that was tempting to an extent, Matt wasn’t really like anyone else. 

He didn’t know exactly how Matt felt about medication, but he could certainly guess. Matt seemed to have an uncommon aversion to substances, always opting for simple aspirin in most situations. Foggy had watched him suffer through multiple colds and flus over the years, and not even once had he reached for the Nyquil. 

He drank, but he was truly something of a lightweight compared to Foggy. In College, Foggy had found it endearing, adorable even, that it didn’t seem to take much to leave Matt red-cheeked and grinning. He would cling to Foggy even tighter than normal, nearly connecting arms with him instead of the usual elbow grab. And, that _giggle._

On the one hand, he was grateful that Matt had simply agreed to go to the appointment; on the other, he was dissatisfied with the outcome. That wasn’t really Matt’s fault, though, so why should he have to suffer the consequences? But what if Matt _didn’t_ suffer any side effects from the medication? What if it _did_ help him, in the long run? Wouldn’t that be worth a shot?

Matt was a grown man though, grown and stubborn as fuck. Foggy couldn’t force him to try the pills, and he didn’t really want to talk Matt into doing anything that he was truly against. Still, Foggy abandoned his cup of coffee for a beer from the fridge, and he tentatively sat himself down in front of his laptop at the kitchen table. 

The balled-up prescription waited at the bottom of his pocket, and Foggy decided that he might as well at least research the medication in question. 

It was called _Venlafaxine_ , and that alone made it sound intimidating. Foggy had certainly never heard of it before, but then again, any prior knowledge he previously held in regards to antidepressants were informed by T.V. commercials alone; smiling, bouncing hair balls for Zoloft, and gloomy, shapeless black clouds of depression for Abilify. Those commercials made depression and anxiety look like a bummer, not a crippling condition with no end in sight. 

_Venlafaxine_ , however, sounded like it could wield enough power to sever Matt’s final tie to sanity, as if it might somehow end up being his own version of kryptonite. Foggy told himself he was just being superstitious, and so he went on to read the fact page that he had recovered. The brand name was Effexor, which sounded more like a steroid than an antidepressant, and the long list of possible side effects was daunting. Nausea. Dizziness. Headache. Insomnia. Impotence. Hypertension. Foggy cringed. 

Then, of course, there was what the website referred to as a “black box warning”; _increased risk of suicide._

“Well that seems counterproductive…” he muttered to himself, feeling suddenly hopeless. Over and over the website insisted that harmful side effects were uncommon, that even if the unpleasant ones did occur they would probably dissipate with time. Still, he shut his laptop and pressed his forehead into the palm of his hand, rubbing meditatively. No. there was _no way_ he could recommend Matt even try something like that, not if he couldn’t honestly promise Matt that it would all be okay. 

That was all they needed, to introduce more symptoms into the mix, toss in thoughts of suicide. Foggy stopped massaging his face then, unexpectedly stricken with an unsettling thought; _did Matt experience suicidal thoughts already?_ There was no way he would have told him if he had. Foggy’s stomach turned and his heartbeat jumped, and suddenly he wanted to rush to the bedroom, shake the man awake, demand that Matt tell him if he had ever thought about killing himself. Instead, he forced himself to stay put. Matt needed his space, that was pretty obvious. But now, there was one more thing to worry about, one more monster to watch out for. 

Even if he wasn’t comfortable with Matt taking the meds, without the medication, now they had nowhere to go. No new leads on where they could turn next. He doubted he could get Matt to another therapist, one whose goal wasn’t just to push pills. 

Foggy took his beer back over to the couch, heavily dropped backward into the cushions. He was starting to feel helpless, all over again. 

~~~

_“Matt, wake up! Wake up, it’s just a dream!”_

It was Foggy’s voice shouting and Matt came around, fingers tangled up in cotton and chest heaving. He tried to fight through the disorientation; the initial question of where he was located, whether it was morning or evening. He could have been asleep for 20 minutes, 20 hours, he had no way of knowing. 

“What-“ Matt panted, and his mouth was dry. Quickly he realized that the fabric he clutched hold of was attached to Foggy- his shirt, to be exact- and so he relinquished his grip. 

“It’s okay, buddy, you were just having a nightmare,” Foggy tried to soothe. 

But Matt was still confused, and he felt feverish. He grabbed for the coat that he thought he still wore, only to find that he had somehow managed to remove it over the course of his frenzied nap. Instead he just tugged at the collar of his shirt until he successfully managed to undo a few buttons, desperate to get some sort of relief on his overheated chest. 

“I’m- I’m sorry, Foggy,” Matt automatically stuttered out, and he wasn’t sure if it was for the apparent scene he had just caused that sent Foggy’s heartrate skyrocketing or for the fact that he had so forcefully grabbed hold of his shirt. Either way, an apology was probably warranted somehow. 

“Are you okay now?” Foggy asked, placing a hand on the back of Matt’s damp shirt. Secretly he was dwelling on the last nightmare that Matt had awoken from mid-panic, the one that caused him to rush out into the night to beat some stranger bloody.

“Yeah, I just- I just need-“ Matt stammered, throwing back the blankets that now scorched him and welcoming a rush of chilled air. He climbed past Foggy and out of the bed, heading woozily toward the kitchen for a much-needed glass of water. 

Foggy nervously followed. He had no idea what Matt had dreamt of, but at least he wasn’t insisting on the sound of a gunshot that might tempt him out into the city. It was 7:30 in the evening, plenty dark for Daredevil to make an appearance. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Foggy repeated, closely monitoring for any signs of alarming behavior. 

Matt didn’t answer. He filled his glass about halfway, swiftly drank it down in aggressive gulps. 

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” Foggy pried with unease. 

Matt first shook his head, then replied, “No,” finishing off the glass with a gasp. It was a lie. 

He didn’t remember all of the details, but there were certainly still some remnants that prevailed, even into his waking state. They were shards of images, disconcerting flashes that he didn’t want to talk about. Mainly, they were of him. Or, what he felt was him. In his dreams, Matt often appeared a variety of ways; alternating from how he knew he looked as a child, to how he imagined Daredevil, to a simple, faceless silhouette that he just somehow knew was himself. This dream mainly featured the dark silhouette, and the persona was definitely fitting. 

Most of all, he could remember how angry he was in the dream. Not just angry, but absolutely furious. His whole being trembled with an anger that threatened to boil over, burn him up from the inside out. There came a point in the dream, even, where he realized that he had no control over it, that he had essentially been _possessed._ He had shouted, gnashed his teeth, his blood broiling almost tar-like. Worst of all, he had no idea how to expel the demons that supposedly tore him up from the inside. 

It turned his stomach to recall that unbridled anger, that overwhelming hatred for nothing and everything all at once. There had been no impression of his personal convictions, no definable trace of his faith or empathy. It was frightening, sickening, and he hoped that he would never experience anything close to that nightmare again. 

He got a little more water, sipped at it simply for the comfort. Foggy was quiet and he was still standing there, studying him, and again Matt fought the urge to snap at him to be left alone. 

Finally, it seemed that Foggy got the hint, that Matt had nothing more to say about what had rattled him so effectively. Slowly Foggy trudged away from him, smelling of beer, and this time Matt did feel a harsher pang of guilt, one that was harder to ignore. 

It still wasn't enough for him to talk about it, though. 

~~~

The 48 hours that followed the appointment with Dr. Dano were quiet and restless. Matt’s responses to any sort of questions or conversations were obligatory and terse. He knew that they would have to talk about it eventually, but he only found himself pushing the conversation back further and further. 

Now he was beside Foggy in bed, wide awake, surmising that it must be early morning, 3 or 4. Foggy’s body felt so close, but still Matt felt that he was inaccessible, out of reach. Matt lived in a different reality than Foggy did, and all of their desperate affections had merely been perpetrated through a veil of glass. 

Sometimes, he really just wanted to give up. Give in. The past month or so had been one long struggle for the two of them, an uphill trudge toward- _what, really?_ Nothing certain; they weren’t even working toward the _promise_ of something better. Nights like this, the fight didn’t seem worth it. It didn’t seem worth it to try to trust in Foggy, and it didn’t seem worth it to put Foggy through all this shit. 

Matt didn’t even know what he was fighting for anymore, not really. Did he truly want to change himself, or was all the effort simply for Foggy alone? And, more and more frequently, he was afraid of what it meant for the two of them if he didn’t really want to get better. Was he not just prolonging the inevitable? Pushing back the final quarrel, denying what he so often feared was imminent for him, a necessary isolation? 

Hell, had he even made any progress? He had opened up a little to Foggy, shared some things he otherwise might not have. But then, he had resorted to self-destruction all over again. He had agreed to go to the appointment, but he couldn’t shake a queasy remorse that he hadn’t given it his best effort. He had lost his cool, doubled down on the silence that made Foggy crazy. He had spent so much time out of his comfort zone as of late, but now he was just exhausted. 

The day that Foggy had asked him to stay longer, that day in the office when he just couldn’t help but kiss Foggy, maybe there was still a glimmer of hope in that memory, if he could find it. At that moment he had wanted help, he had wanted to trust in Foggy, to let him lead the way. That had to be real. 

_“Foggy…”_ Matt suddenly begged in a whisper, his throat aching heavy. Foggy had slipped somewhere between consciousness and sleep, he had been teetering on that edge for a while, Matt could hear it. But suddenly, he needed Foggy to be right there with him. 

“Foggy,” he repeated, forcing it out louder, and Foggy stirred. 

“Yeah? What- what’s up? What is it?” responded Foggy, hazily pivoting his body until he was facing the man next to him. “What’s wrong?” 

“F-Foggy, I… _I want-“_ Matt resorted back to a whisper, only to find himself scooting in closer. All the words he imagined he would say- that he would do anything to keep Foggy around, that Foggy was right, he _was_ barely surviving, that he loved Foggy more than anything- no longer seemed feasible. 

Helplessly, he pressed in close to the warmth. _“I want…”_ he tried again, muttering into Foggy’s bare shoulder, punctuating his pathetic broken sentence with a sheepish kiss. Maybe all those words were in there, somewhere, and Foggy would be able to feel them. Then, he wouldn’t have to find a way to say them. 

Foggy was bleary-eyed, but thoroughly heartened by the contact. Matt had been so quiet over the last two days, so stern and solemn. It was an intense relief to feel Matt’s cheek against his own, his warm lips in the crook of his neck. Foggy felt himself loosening up inside, as if his whole body had been tensed whilst he awaited some sort of valid conversation with the man he loved. 

He nuzzled back into Matt, let the man’s lips find his own for an all too welcome kiss. Matt was pressing into him, his body so warm and solid. Already Foggy could feel him stiffening against his thigh, and the sensation jolted right through his hazy state. 

Foggy rumbled low in his throat and basked in Matt’s affection. Matt was nipping at his jawline, emboldened from the groan, and then he was back at his lips, kissing with a feverish force. Matt kissed him so hungrily, so frantically, that the red flags began to sound at the back of Foggy’s mind and he couldn’t ignore them. _Is this what they were going to do when things got particularly rough for them? They would just overlook it and fuck?_

_“Mmm-_ Matt-“ Foggy pulled back, placing a halting hand on Matt’s chest. “Slow down… I think we need to slow it down…” he breathed. Truthfully, it was a hard thing to do. His blood was coursing all over the place, draining from his brain into his groin, and he _wanted Matt._

Matt’s affection felt so good, like a dose of a drug he’d been missing. But now, now Foggy could see the potential harm in that corporeal passion. By sleeping with Matt he had given him a way around the difficult conversations, the aspects of communication that evaded Matt so frequently. And, Matt was often one to opt for the physical way out; he understood his body so much more than he understood his own mind. 

Matt blinked, and he looked surprised. He sunk back onto his elbow, his eyes appearing wide and stunned in the dark. 

“It’s- it’s not that I don’t want to. I mean, you _have to know_ by now how attracted I am to you…” Foggy recovered, reaching to place a hand on Matt’s shoulder, massaging softly. “But, Matt, you haven’t talked to me about the appointment with Dr. Dano- _at all._ In fact, you’ve barely spoken to me. I’ve been thinking you were pissed at me…” 

“What do you want me to say, Foggy?” Matt growled, pulling away from the caress and navigating his way to the foot of the bed. He planted himself there with his back to Foggy, aggravated fingers raking through his hair. 

“It’s not like I have anything particular in mind,” Foggy sighed. “I just… I just need you to tell me how you’re doing. Matt, I get sick of trying to guess what the hell’s going on with you, what kind of mood you’re in; whether your pissed, or depressed, or, I don’t know, hungry. I’m really not looking for anything profound here.” he implored, scooting himself a few feet closer to the rugged silhouette on the edge of the bed. 

“I told you that I don’t know how to do this,” was Matt’s low response. 

“Yeah but, when you said that I just assumed you were referring to _romantic_ relationships…”

Matt kind of shrugged, his shoulders heavy. “Look, Foggy…” he exhaled, face directed down toward the floor. “I know that my efforts may not always be the most…gratifying, especially as a friend… but, I… I am _trying.”_

It was Foggy’s turn to feel a heavy remorse; deep down, he knew that Matt was absolutely right. He _had_ been trying, and he had already made so many abrupt changes in his life. He had essentially abandoned his apartment, the only space that was his own, to move in with Foggy. He had cut back drastically on his outings as Daredevil, just for Foggy's sake. He agreed to meet with Dr. Dano, despite a persistent phobia that dated all the way back to his _childhood_. And, it was then that Foggy realized he had failed Matt yet again. Through all of Matt's highs and lows, despite all of his efforts, he had failed to offer the man any praise. _Christ,_ Foggy thought to himself, guilt seeping all the way down to his gut.

“You’re right, Matty,” Foggy murmured, nudging in close to Matt’s back and stretching his fingers up into his hair. “I know that none of this has been easy for you… I’m sorry if I forgot that. Going to that appointment, that was a big step. It’s okay if you're not ready to talk about it yet. I just want you to be okay, that’s all. I’m really sorry, buddy…” he spoke softly, nuzzling just under Matt’s ear. “I really am proud of you.” 

Matt finally turned to him then, slowly facing toward the man's body heat, his signature aura that Matt felt so drawn to. Matt was chewing at his bottom lip and his eyes were glassy, resting somewhere around Foggy’s collarbone. To Foggy, it looked as if he were trying, with difficulty, not to appear moved by those simple words alone. Matt licked his lips and then lowered his eyes even further, as if he were ashamed. “I...I would do anything to make you happy… anything to keep you from leaving.” he confessed, his brow flinching and his voice small and rough.

Foggy’s throat tightened, his chest aching. Somehow, it hadn’t even occurred to him that Matt might be fearfully awaiting his departure, that this whole time, day by day, Matt might be anticipating the moment in which Foggy had enough, the day in which he would abandon him just like everyone else had. To Matt, that was simply what people did. Now, it all seemed so horrifically obvious. 

He didn’t know what to say, didn’t even know if words alone could ease Matt’s fears. He would just have to show him, then. “C’mere, Matt…” Foggy whispered, tugging softly at the man’s arm until Matt was lying on his chest, wrapped up tightly in his arms. “You clearly have no idea how much I love you..." he uttered, "and, I promise that I'm going to show you, _I'm not going anywhere."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title and lyrics taken from "Suffer in Silence" by The Frames.


	13. Encompassing Anxiety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He threw down his cane and tried to catch his breath, loosened his tie. The sensation was formidable; each time he felt that he was on the verge of control, that the attack was subsiding, it would roll in with a renewed force and he would be left dizzy and nauseated all over again. There couldn’t just be the initial incident that he had to be ashamed of, there had to be aftershocks, each and every one capable of doing their own amount of damage to his already unstable façade.
> 
>  _“Pathetic,”_ Matt quietly chastised himself aloud, his breath still just a pant away.
> 
>  _“You’re fucking pathetic!”_ he growled again, sharply baring his teeth. He turned and shakily reached forward until his fingers found the wall beside him, pressing his forehead to the cool, grainy brick until once again the nausea subsided.

_“With a sense of urgency and unease_  
_Second-guessing just about everything_  
_Recollections of a nightmare_  
_So cryptic and incomprehensible_

_Encompassing_  
_Anxiety_

_No control, no compensation_  
_A jaded need for some astonishment_  
_It's a blunt humiliation_  
_Not at risk of being overconfident_

_Encompassing_  
_Anxiety_

_I'm spinning in a vacuum_  
_Deteriorating to great acclaim_  
_Help has fallen by the wayside_  
_Nowhere near to finding better ways to be_  
_I'm not here purely for the sake_  
_Of breathing, I am wide awake_  
_Excuse my efforts for today…”_

 

“What’s this guy’s name again?” Foggy asked, directing the question to Karen in particular. Both he and Matt had quickly familiarized themselves with the folder of information just a few hours before, though they had both been distracted. 

Truthfully, they were both apprehensive for this meeting; not because it would be a particularly trying affair, but because it was difficult for either of them to focus on much of anything as of late. They both felt anchorless, out of focus. Foggy was concerned for Matt, and Matt was concerned that he would fuck everything else up, whatever else might be left to destroy.

“James Giddings.” Karen answered. She nervously busied her hands with various documents on her desk, papers and folders that didn’t really hold any importance for their upcoming meeting with the new client. They had managed to keep him on the hook long enough to schedule a valid appointment, and Karen was determined that they didn’t scare him away. Mr. Giddings was, for the time being at least, their _only_ client. 

“Do you need to read over the paperwork again?” she questioned, holding back a restless sigh and gently tapping yet another stray pile of papers on her desk. 

“Nope, I’m good.” Foggy responded with a strained confidence. He had the gist of the case, and that would most likely be all that he needed for this particular meeting. Mr. Giddings would be filling them in on all sorts of preemptive details, and their jobs would mainly be to listen and take notes, toss out the occasional tidbit of legal advice and/or relevant question. 

Foggy turned to Matt, surveyed him to get one final read on his mental state before Giddings would arrive. He certainly _looked_ well put together, enigmatic as always in his perfectly tailored suit. His hair was nicely combed, his sunglasses helpfully hiding any trace of exhaustion in his eyes. “Good, Matt?” he asked, forcing a casual air.

Matt gave a curt nod, his hands in his pockets; he was still uncertain of himself around Karen, especially after she had learned that he was staying with Foggy and was “dangerously depressed”, as Foggy had spilled to her in the hallway. 

“Your tie’s a little crooked, buddy. Here, let me.” stated Foggy, immediately stepping in and reaching for Matt’s collar. Matt cocked his chin as Foggy’s fingers worked, gently tugging and tightening the knot until his tie was presumably fixed. 

Karen couldn’t help but avert her eyes from this simple act, and she found herself nearly blushing. It wasn’t as if Foggy hadn’t done anything like that before, he certainly had. It was that she was now aware of a private intimacy that most surely held a place in the man’s thoughtful attention toward his best friend and business partner. The _extent_ of that intimacy she was unsure of, but there was no denying that it existed. 

“There we go. Looking sharp!” Foggy exclaimed, clapping Matt on the shoulder and eliciting a small, half-hearted smirk from the man.

“Thanks, Foggy.” muttered Matt.

James Giddings arrived right on time, and certainly seemed enthusiastic to shake the hands of the two lawyers that had been far too busy to meet him about a week before. Matt noted that the man seemed friendly enough; he had a forceful grip like he was eager to make a strong impression, smelled like cheap alcohol-based aftershave, and didn’t give Matt any strange compliments about how great it was that he was blind _and_ a lawyer. 

He asked to be called Jim, and Matt estimated that he was in his early thirties. Foggy was doing his best to appear both easygoing and professional, usually a no-brainer for him, though Matt couldn’t help but be distracted by the steady upswing in his heartrate. Foggy was anxious about something, and most likely, it was Matt. Matt tightened his knuckles discreetly around the base of his cane, commanding to himself that he wouldn’t let Foggy down.

“Shall we?” said Foggy, extending a hand in the direction of the conference room and allowing Mr. Giddings to lead the way. 

~~~

The meeting began like most others; Foggy asked various rudimentary questions to flesh out the little information they had in their paperwork, and Matt sat quietly, listening and analyzing, occasionally intervening to sort out any details that might need further clarification. 

Matt didn’t feel _comfortable,_ necessarily, but that was nothing new and had become the norm for him so long ago. It was something that he had just learned to tune out, like listening around static. He hadn’t slept the night before, had anxiously declined breakfast, and thus he was feeling just a little shaky. It was nothing compared to working around the pain of a broken rib or a stab wound, though, he strictly reminded himself. 

There was a change, however, about halfway through the meeting. It first began that Matt missed a sentence or two, that he realized he had just tuned out a small portion of the conversation. He shifted in his chair, leaned in a little closer to force his attention on the man speaking from across the table. Foggy continuously took notes beside him, humming the occasional affirmative, scratching at his notepad with a ball point pen. 

Giddings was discussing possible witnesses, then, and again Matt realized he had missed a step somewhere in the dialogue. He tightened his jaw, tightened his fist on the table, nearly held his breath as if it might somehow impede his ability to listen. 

“-and I’m not the only one who thinks so; I know of at least two former colleagues who might be willing to vouch for me in court-” Jim detailed with enthusiasm, unaware that he really only had the full attention of one of the lawyers before him. 

The more Matt tried to focus on what Giddings said, however, the more his mind meandered, lilting off track and further out of grasp. Soon followed his heartrate, steadily mounting in the midst of his distressing haze. Suddenly it was as if a deep, sturdy breath eluded him, sat just out of his reach. 

_No._ Matt thought, swallowing back the bewildering discomfort. His body tensed immediately, quickly alert to the unanticipated rush of agitation. He tried his best to concentrate on Giddings’ words instead, nearly dissecting the sentences in his mind in order to redirect his focus. 

“-Greg has said for certain that he would be willing to testify in court, if that’s necessary, that is,” Giddings continued.

“It may or may not be necessary, depending on how far this goes,” answered Foggy, again taking notes. “A brief deposition may be all we need from him.” 

Matt swallowed, tried to discreetly exhale, but it was all futile. That initial spark of anxiety sent a dreaded kindling, and it spread like wildfire. Suddenly the blood was sifting downward from his temples to his cheeks, down to his tingling fingertips, and it only added to the surreal sensation of suffocation. _No, not here…_ Matt internally commanded. _Not now!_

His throat tightened, as if that was his body’s response to his demands. He willed strength, chewed the inside of his cheek and dug his nails into his palms, but the more he tried to fight the more his body fought him back. _Betrayed_ him. 

Giddings had just said something about saving all of his work-related texts and emails, but Matt had missed most of it. 

_“-Um,”_ Matt interrupted, standing abruptly. “Will you excuse me for a moment?” he murmured, grabbing for his cane and making a swift exit out of the conference room. Foggy had stammered something as Matt left, but Matt hadn’t really caught it. 

He rushed passed Karen, who also faltered out some sort of statement of surprise, and out into the hallway. Really, he hadn’t planned out his route, wasn’t sure he knew where he wanted to end up, so long as it was _away._ Once he reached the stairwell he stopped on the landing, panting with both panic and self-resentment, vaguely aware of the sound of his gasps as they ricocheted off the brick chamber around him. 

He threw down his cane and tried to catch his breath, loosened his tie. The sensation was formidable; each time he felt that he was on the verge of control, that the attack was subsiding, it would roll in with a renewed force and he would be left dizzy and nauseated all over again. There couldn’t just be the initial incident that he had to be ashamed of, there had to be aftershocks, each and every one capable of doing their own amount of damage to his already unstable façade. 

_“Pathetic,”_ Matt quietly chastised himself aloud, his breath still just a pant away. 

_“You’re fucking pathetic!”_ he growled again, sharply baring his teeth. He turned and shakily reached forward until his fingers found the wall beside him, pressing his forehead to the cool, grainy brick until once again the nausea subsided. 

Matt traced his fingertips up and down the wall, infused his focus into the gritty catch of concrete. Then, of course, there was the anger; that bitter distaste for his own weakness sitting at the back of his throat. He pressed his fist lightly into the wall, threw a lethargic, half-hearted punch. Once again, his body was betraying him, and that was _all he really had_. Above all else, his body was the one thing he had maintained some semblance of control over, the one thing he thought he could manage. The only thing about himself that he thought he truly understood. 

Another shockwave- they were slowly dulling in severity- another jolt of self-hatred. 

Matt’s knuckles still sat square against the cool brick, thin skin that had grown calloused over the years. Slowly he twisted his fist, pushing harder and harder into the wall, rage coiling up inside him like a spring-loaded trap. He focused his anger into the concrete, into his clenching fist, into his gritted teeth, into the taut knuckles that he slowly ground harder and harder into the rocky surface until the pain receptors in his hand sent frantic pleas up to his brain begging him to stop. 

When he couldn’t stand it any longer he pulled his fist away with a soft yelp, basking in the instant relief that followed. Matt took a slow breath and let his brain swim in the endorphins; that guilty, undeserved sense of satisfaction. Somewhere along the line, his body, it seemed, had learned to equate pain with accomplishment. This was wrong, logically he knew that, but he had no idea how to rewire the association. It was something that he just kept coming back to; an old, familiar place where maybe he wasn’t _happy_ there but at least he knew the area well.

Before Matt had much time to further denigrate himself for his actions he picked up the sound of delicate heels on tile, and then he caught a whiff of Karen’s shampoo just seconds before she pushed open the heavy door to the stairwell. 

“Matt,” she stated, breathy as always like a small animal, sounding both relieved and alarmed all at once. “There you are.” 

Matt shifted where he stood, tried to take quick stock of his appearance. His hair was probably a little mussed, his forehead a little clammy. “I-I just needed a little air…” he mumbled, adjusting the tie that he had hastily pulled loose. 

He realized his mistake when he heard a stifled intake of breath in front of him. _“What happened to your hand?”_ Karen asked, descending the stairs to the landing and approaching him slowly as if he might run like a stray. 

Matt felt his face flush with blood as Karen gently took hold of his hand to take a closer look, studying his knuckles and then his face. He mustered some sort of small noise in response, tilting his head briefly, but there really was nothing he could say. He couldn’t think of a good lie and he couldn’t tell the truth, so instead he just waited the situation out, hoped that she didn’t need a real answer. 

Karen waited silently, and then seemed to give up on the question. “Come on…” she muttered, retrieving his walking stick from the corner and tugging gently at his arm until he unsteadily followed her up the stairs and back to their floor. At first it seemed to him that she wanted to lead him back into the office, though he wasn’t quite ready to make his reappearance. Just when he was about to protest, find some excuse to stay secluded, Karen ducked him into one of the bathrooms just down the hall.

“Here,” she sighed, parking him close to one of the sinks and dispensing a few paper towels. She dampened them with cool water and placed them over his raw hand. 

Foggy had said that they were like family, the three of them. That it didn’t matter how Matt fucked up, he would be loved regardless. He had been more than skeptical then, and certainly he still was. It was a nice idea, though. 

Months ago, Karen had told him that he wasn’t alone, that he never had been. He had tried to forget that he cried in front of her- _on her,_ really; he had been so overwhelmed, so disheartened by society’s horrors, that he just couldn’t help it. He had cried even harder when she said that he wasn’t alone; not just because he wanted so badly to believe it, but because deep down he knew that it wasn’t true. 

Still, he stood their quietly, awkwardly permitting her to hold his fingers in the palm of her hand as she clasped the cool towel over his grated knuckles. 

“Matt...” Karen started, clearing her throat, “I just want to say… I know what it’s like. To think that you deserve to be punished… but, you _don’t._ Whatever you’ve done… you don’t have to punish yourself.” 

Matt hadn’t intended to answer, and yet he suddenly replied, “You don’t know what I’ve done.” with a low, hollow chuckle. He automatically regretted his words, listening as Karen’s heart thumped irregularly with surprise and a temporary fear. 

Still, she recovered herself quickly, determined to push her point onwards. “You’re a good person. I know that. So does Foggy.” she strictly stated. 

“Foggy’s a terrible judge of character.” Matt scoffed, recalling all the times that he had witnessed Foggy being directly lied to, never having any inkling. 

“Maybe he is,” Karen played along, “but _he’s_ a good person, and he’s crazy about _you._ That has to count for something, right?” 

Finally, Matt decided he would let her have this one, and so he quelled any further rebuttals. It was, of course, not nearly as simple as Karen made it sound, but it was reassuring, nonetheless. Sometimes, simplicity was more comforting than anything. 

“Thanks, Karen.” Matt exhaled, gesturing a nod down to the paper towel she still held over his hand. 

“Anytime,” she responded with a glowing sincerity. 

It was then that Foggy could be heard by the both of them down the hallway, loud and jovial as if he were overcompensating. He stopped short several feet from the door, confirmed to Mr. Giddings their next meeting and offered a friendly goodbye. 

Karen waited, listened for the stairwell door, and then gently grabbed Matt’s elbow. She gave it a subtle tug, encouraging him to follow her out into the hallway. 

“Matt, thank god! What the hell happened to you, buddy?” Foggy exclaimed, almost as soon as they cleared the threshold. He jogged the gap between them. 

“I-I just…” Matt stammered, his tone muffled by queasy humiliation.

“He just needed some air.” Karen chimed in, and Matt tried to mask his grimace. He knew that Foggy wouldn’t believe that, even if he couldn’t hear Karen’s rapid heartbeat as she lied. 

“Yeah?” Foggy started, and sure enough the concern in his voice was still rampant. He took a step in closer to Matt, cautiously aware of Karen’s watchful gaze. He opted for nonchalance, though he really wanted to search Matt for damage. “Well, that’s cool… Giddings looked a little weirded out by your surprise exit, but I got him back on track. He seems pretty enthusiastic about us, for the most part.” Foggy sighed, relieved that the whole thing was over and that at least Matt hadn’t disappeared.

“Thanks … I- I’m sorry I ran out like that.” Matt mumbled, his eyes toward the floor. 

“Hey, it’s okay. No harm done…” Foggy paused, then swallowed. “Right?”

Matt chewed on his bottom lip, mortified and morose. This game was swiftly becoming a tired one, and he knew that Foggy would be happiest with flat out honesty. Slowly he lifted his hand from his side until it caught Foggy’s eye, making him aware of the damaged skin on his knuckles that now throbbed with an aggravated heat. He picked up a stifled sigh from Foggy, and then felt him nod coolly. 

“Okay…” Foggy breathed, still nodding. “It’s okay, Matty,” he quietly assured, and his tone changed so abruptly that Karen couldn’t help but steal a glance in his direction. Foggy grasped Matt’s shoulder and gave it a firm knead, and his other hand gently reached for Matt’s, careful not to touch his wounded knuckles. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

Matt forced a nod in return for Foggy’s sake, though his heart wasn’t really in it. 

Karen focused on the floor tiles as Foggy shuffled in a little closer to Matt, his hand wandering upward to gently cup the side of Matt’s face, fingertips lightly scratching at stubble. “Were going to figure this out…” Foggy whispered, staring directly into Matt’s eyes even if they couldn’t connect. 

Foggy had insisted to Karen that the two of them weren’t a couple, and, maybe he had believed that. Perhaps he still did. It was fairly obvious, however, from the way that he caressed Matt’s cheek, from the way he held his hand, that they most certainly were.

~~~

“What do you want to say, Foggy?” Matt suddenly asked. 

_“Huh?”,_ responded Foggy, startled by Matt’s abrupt interjection from the couch. Foggy had been sitting by himself at the table, pretending to work on his laptop. Really, he _had_ been preparing to speak, but he wasn’t expecting Matt to pick up on it. 

“I told you before, you inhale when you want to say something. You also sigh a lot when it’s something you think I’ll hate. Just…” Matt trailed and then made a gesture with his hand, indicating for Foggy to spill his concerns. 

“Man, I wish you had some sort of tell.” Foggy attempted to joke as he moved to join Matt on the couch. “Then maybe it wouldn’t scare the hell out of me when you finally do speak up. I can’t tell you how many times you’ve startled me over the years…”

Matt nodded, lips tight. “Yeah, I can hear it,” he murmured. “What is it?” he asked again, already eager for the conversation to come to an end. He didn’t need any more surprises for the day. 

“Okay, well… look, I’ve been thinking…” Foggy started, watching Matt’s jawline pulse as he anxiously awaited Foggy’s revelation. “-And, I want you to know, by the way, that this isn’t just because of what happened today, I’ve been mulling this over on and off for a little while now…”

Matt gave a quick nod for Foggy to continue, eyelids dragging heavy. 

“I’m wondering if maybe we should, you know, take a little break from work. Just for a little while. Few weeks, maybe…” Foggy confessed with a shrug. 

“No.” Matt blurted, his eyelashes fluttering sporadically. “No- we can’t do that, Foggy. W-we barely work as it is. We just took on a new client.”

“I know, I know, but… _Matt._ Today… that was just a meeting, in _our conference room._ How are you going to feel in a deposition? In _court?”_

Matt swallowed, suddenly hit with another tidal wave of shame. “I don’t know what happened today.” he quietly admitted. “...but we can’t give up on what we've built at Nelson & Murdock. We’ve worked too hard to get here.”

Foggy was quiet then, but his heart was loud and clear. He was scared. Uncertain. He probably questioned Matt’s strength, his judgement. Matt quickly resolved that he wouldn’t blame him if that were true. Still-

“Look, I… I know you’re trying to help, but…” Matt softly pleaded, “but trust me, I’m worse off if I have nothing to do. I have to _do something.”_ he insisted, angling his head in Foggy’s direction. “I-I can’t just… just sit around all day, and-and _wait to go insane…”_

“Okay.” Foggy conceded, finding Matt’s hand in between them on the couch and giving it a light squeeze. “Okay, Matt. Just an idea, that’s all.” 

Matt’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he tilted his head in a little further so that it nearly met Foggy’s. 

Foggy swallowed. “But… Matty, what the hell _are_ we going to do if you freak out again on the job? We have a follow up meeting with Jim Giddings in a week, and this case could potentially end up in court…”

Matt chewed lightly at his bottom lip and sighed, his eyelids fluttering with a weighty surrender. “I’ll take the pills.” he replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics from "Anxiety" by Preoccupations.
> 
> My apologies to anyone interested for the long hiatus- I certainly hadn't planned on it. this fic has been at the back of my mind for months now, as I still have a good six or more chapters planned out, not to mention sections already written. I really hope to get back on track, as I definitely missed working on it. Thanks so much to those who read, like, and comment!


	14. Our Existence Has Serious Side Effects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Nausea. High blood pressure. Headache. Dry mouth. Sweating. Chest pain. Fast or irregular heartbeat. Mood or mental changes. Ringing or buzzing in ears. Abnormal vision-”
> 
> “I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that last one, Foggy.” Matt interrupted sardonically.
> 
> Foggy paused only for a moment, and then continued on. “Neck pain. Irritability. Insomnia. Abnormal dreams. Impaired urination. Nervousness. Lightheadedness or fainting. Convulsions. Trouble breathing…” he continued to list out, sporadically looking up to Matt across the floor with intensity. The further down the list he got the more uncertain Matt’s eyes became, though Matt had also begun to raise his chin with a wordless determination, doing his best to force a look of fearless tenacity. Foggy both hated and admired it.

_I found a letter that read_  
_"Our existence has serious side effects."_  
_Turned on, turned on the television_  
_And it's telling me the world is collapsing_

_I think it's coming, oh and it comes so fast_  
_I'm hearing whispers of an infinite yes_  
_And I don't know why it is_  
_Our bodies are dead, why you look so sad?_

_And my therapist said_  
_"We've evolved through a series of accidents."_  
_There's been talk of chemical imbalances_  
_Restless sense of detachment, nausea and violence_

_I think it's coming, oh and it comes so fast…”_

 

“Nausea. High blood pressure. Headache. Dry mouth. Sweating. Chest pain. Fast or irregular heartbeat. Mood or mental changes. Ringing or buzzing in ears. Abnormal vision-”

“I don’t think I’ll have to worry about that last one, Foggy.” Matt interrupted sardonically. 

Foggy paused only for a moment, and then continued on. “Neck pain. Irritability. Insomnia. Abnormal dreams. Impaired urination. Nervousness. Lightheadedness or fainting. Convulsions. Trouble breathing…” he continued to list out, sporadically looking up to Matt across the floor with intensity. The further down the list he got the more uncertain Matt’s eyes became, though Matt had also begun to raise his chin with a wordless determination, doing his best to force a look of fearless tenacity. Foggy both hated and admired it.

“Physical Weakness. Abdominal Pain. Hypertension. Depression. Thoughts of suicide…” Foggy had finally finished, growing silent and focusing back on Matt. This hadn’t been Foggy’s first reaction to Matt bringing up the pills; he had initially declared it a terrible idea, _“possibly the worst one you’ve ever had.”_

That was swiftly followed by a flat out _“No,”_ though Matt was still blindsided by Foggy’s initial remark. By the time Matt had recovered from the shock and began to protest Foggy had rushed over to his laptop, and within seconds he was naming side effects. 

Matt couldn’t deny that the list was daunting, the sheer number of possibilities staggering. Still, he was running out of options. _Don’t take Nelson and Murdock away from me_. he thought. _Without this, I have nothing._

“Matt…” Foggy had finally asked, “Do you really feel like you’re... you know… waiting to go crazy?” he winced out. 

To that Matt had nothing to say. 

Now Matt was sitting by the window, cool glass radiating through the back of his shirt, compulsively trying to swallow around a buzzing distress that simply would not dislodge from the back of his throat. It had taken some arguing, but Foggy had finally agreed to make a call to the pharmacy down the street and pick up the pills in the morning. Foggy hadn’t actually thrown away the prescription, so clearly there was a part of him that was also holding onto the hope that it might help, just like he held onto that little slip of paper that sat crumpled up in his coat pocket. 

And it was true. Foggy had pocketed his hand once or twice over the past couple of days, found the prescription there, and ultimately resolved not to toss it. He told himself that they had worked so hard just to get it, and so it seemed a waste to throw it away, like chucking a useless little trophy. Matt was right, though, there _was_ hope in Foggy- suspended way in the back -that the pills might end up being their saving grace. You know, if things somehow managed to get worse than they already were. 

Matt was having second thoughts, but he would only allow them to germinate; he denied them fruition. He stamped them out as quickly as he heard his own internal arguments, as he continuously re-analyzed all the possible side effects. _This was what he had to do,_ he told himself, as frequently as he felt necessary. There was no backing out of it, it was _the only thing to do._ In a way, it had always been more comforting to not even give himself a choice; if you didn’t have a choice, then you’re less likely to dwell on your mistakes. 

And if he needed a little extra courage, he thought of living without Daredevil _or_ Nelson and Murdock, with no purpose entirely. He thought of how Foggy would eventually grow tired of this fight, and how he _would_ leave- even if he promised that he wasn’t going anywhere. That was enough to center Matt all over again, and he planted himself even firmer in his decision. 

_If I'm such a fucking hero, then I can swallow a little pill,_ he thought, taking a moment to grimace at himself with distaste for his pathetic fears and weaknesses. 

~~~

“Are you sure you want to do this?” was the first thing Foggy said after he closed the front door, the sound of a thin paper bag crackling in his hand. No greeting, no _I’m back, Matt._

Matt just nodded, not wanting to chance another discussion on the matter that might compromise his fortitude. 

Foggy was quiet, and then he placed the bag gently on the table. “Okay, Matt.” he relented for a second time, doing his best to extinguish any sense of relief that threatened to wash over him. It was way too early for that. “Well…” he continued awkwardly, interrupting himself with a slow sigh, “you can start them whenever, really. The pharmacist said that they could be taken either in the morning or at night, as long as it’s around the same time every day.” 

Matt nodded again, his lips pursed. “Thanks.” he murmured, forcing indifference. 

Foggy nodded slowly in return, seeming unaware of what the next move should be. “I guess it’s good that we have the weekend, in case…you know…” he trailed, not really wanting to fill in the blanks with any horrendous predictions. 

Yeah, Matt knew. And he didn’t want to think about it. Resolutely he pushed to his feet, headed for the table. _Now was as good a time as any._ He could feel Foggy hesitate, prepare to speak, and then ultimately decide against it. He didn’t ask Foggy what he wanted to say, he didn’t really need to hear it. Another reassurance, another warning, it didn’t matter. Either way, he was going to swallow the pill.

But it was just a single question that lingered at the back of Foggy’s mind, waiting to be released: _you aren't just doing this for me, are you?_ During his walk to and from the pharmacy he had heard Matt’s own words over and over, _“I would do anything to make you happy… anything to keep you from leaving”,_ and the suspicion that surrounded them was slowly building and unrelenting. It rolled around in his stomach like guilt- and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to ask it.

Foggy looked on uneasily as Matt reached into the bag, gave the bottle a quick shake. He popped off the white cap with ease, shook out a small capsule into the palm of his hand, and Foggy strode over to the kitchen to fetch him a glass of water; evidently, Matt was ready to do this _now._

The pill felt so light and unassuming in his hand, like a little plastic capsule of air. Its scent was strongly chemical, though, and it turned Matt’s stomach fairly effortlessly. He tried to hide the quick twitch of his nose from Foggy, who was ready at his side with the glass. 

“Thanks, Foggy,” Matt muttered again, preparing himself with a determined breath just before he tossed back the pill and a quick swig of water, leaving just the foreign, bitter taste on the back of his tongue where the capsule had made contact. 

All they could do then was wait.

~~~

It didn’t take long for Matt to notice the pill’s presence; less than an hour passed before he could feel it swimming in his stomach. He imagined that he could nearly “see” where it sat, bubbling and dissolving, leaking chemicals like a rusty battery. The further the capsule melted, the worse the stomach pain got. 

He assumed that the localized burning would subside once the pill had fully dissolved, but two hours later it remained, nauseatingly corrosive. And, Foggy had been glancing over at him almost rhythmically for at least those two hours, all the while pretending that he was constructing the summons and complaint papers for the Giddings case. He hadn’t yet asked Matt how he was doing, but it was clear that he wanted to. 

Matt heard Foggy draw in a deep sigh, and then, finally, “how do you feel?” he forced out as innocently as possible. 

“I’m okay.” Matt lied, murmuring carefully from the couch where he reclined. He was reluctant to speak or move with too much vigor, lest he might coax the bilious sensation further up his esophagus. 

“Okay. Good.” Foggy nodded, pushing a positivity that also managed to make Matt’s stomach roll. He continued his typing, now with a much clearer focus. 

Matt lie on his back, tucked into the corner of the couch with his head on the armrest, one foot planted flat on the ground, one arm slung awkwardly over the back of the couch. He had been contemplating adjusting his posture for at least ten minutes, hoping that there might be some position that could lighten the heavy queasiness, but every time he began to shift his stomach would act as if he were vaulting, and so he would sink back into the corner with defeat. 

Then suddenly Foggy’s phone was sounding from the table, and Foggy noted aloud that it was Karen. It was a brief conversation, one that Matt of course heard in its entirety. Jim Giddings had called her, and he wanted to meet with the two of them Monday, preferably early afternoon. Giddings realized that this might be an imposition, and offered his apologies through Karen. 

“Um- yeah. Okay.” Foggy responded with a fairly obvious reluctance. They hadn’t planned on meeting with Jim until the following week, and Foggy had paced his work accordingly. “Tell him we’ll see him Monday,” he exhaled, and Karen affirmed. 

“Hear that?” Foggy asked as he lowered his phone back to the table. He certainly wasn’t _pleased_ with the sudden change, but it was imperative that they keep their _only client_ happy- especially since their track record with the man had been less than impressive thus far; one missed opportunity, one disappearing lawyer during their first meeting. Technically they were 0 for 2. 

“Yeah.” Matt mumbled feebly, resting a cautious hand on his stomach. Foggy had continued on, muttering something to himself about disrespect and desperation, ballsy clients and paychecks. All Matt could think about was going to sleep, though.

~~~

It was that same dream, again. The unsurmountable anger, coupled with no sense of control. The realization that he was being possessed. This time Matt even felt that he was choking on black tar, as if all that fury seeped through his body, thick and suffocating. It boiled in his stomach, spilled over into his lungs, clotted his blood, oozed from his eyes and mouth-

-Matt awoke again mid-panic. Quickly he sat up, the taste of bile prickling at the back of his tongue. His stomach lurched forward with a determined force and he leapt out of bed, unsteady on his feet as he rushed for Foggy’s bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet before he was retching.

He hadn’t really eaten anything all day, and so all he could do was choke on sour bile. Still, his stomach continued its contortions, burning with each violent contraction of his abdomen muscles. He gasped for air, choked again, and then Foggy was standing in the bathroom door. 

_“Shit…”_ Foggy cursed groggily under his breath. “You okay, Matty?” It felt like an odd question even as he asked it, _redundant as hell_ , but he wasn’t sure what else he should do or say. 

Matt was trying to catch his breath, his eyes watering. He shook his head, trying internally to will his stomach into submission, urge it to stop its acrobatics. 

“I’ll get you some water.” resolved Foggy, and he briefly disappeared down the hall. 

Matt wiped his eyes on his arm, spat the lingering taste of acid into the toilet, forced a deep breath. It seemed he was slowly winning the war against his abdomen, so at least there was that. 

“Here,” Foggy offered, kneeling down next to Matt and nudging the cool glass against the back of his hand. “Drink it slow, okay?”

Matt nodded carefully, utilizing the first sip of water to rinse out his mouth. He barely noticed that Foggy had also placed a reassuring hand on his back, massaging in gentle circles. There was something fuzzy about the way Matt felt, his cognizance just a little soft around the edges. Ultimately, he chalked it up to fatigue; exhaustion from waking up so abruptly, becoming so violently ill. 

“Is it the meds?” Foggy asked, though the question was also superfluous. 

“Yeah.” Matt breathed, taking a sip from the glass, his hand trembling lightly. 

Foggy waited patiently next to Matt until the shock of distress gradually slackened around him, until his posture began to relax and his breathing slowly normalized. 

“You ready to go back to bed?” asked Foggy after about ten minutes of silence between them. 

“No, you… you go ahead. I’m going to sit here a little longer.” Matt mumbled, finally backing away from where he knelt so vigilantly, weakly settling himself up against the wall. 

Foggy nodded, but he didn’t budge. Instead, he just waited alongside Matt, quietly observing as the man grew more and more drowsy, eyes heavier and heavier. 

Finally, after an additional ten minutes or so, Foggy gave him a nudge, “C’mon buddy,” he muttered, and Matt permitted him to help him to his feet and back into the bedroom. 

~~~

When Matt woke up Sunday he was feeling a bit better, though an apparition of queasiness from the day before still remained. Foggy insisted on doing a little research before Matt took the pill again, hoping he could find any scrap of information that might prevent what happened the night before from transpiring again. 

“This website recommends that you take Effexor with food,” announced Foggy, peering closely at his laptop screen. “Would have been nice to know that yesterday, huh?” he attempted to joke, but Matt wasn’t really impressed. Nor was he hungry. 

“Matt, did you even eat yesterday?” Foggy asked then, and it came out mildly suspicious. He had given up on forcing Matt to eat every meal like a healthy person weeks ago, but he had still tried to put some pressure on the man at least once a day. Yesterday, he hadn’t really thought about it- he had been so distracted with the paperwork for the Giddings case. 

“No,” Matt admitted, just the slightest bit of petty defiance coloring his response. 

“Jesus, Matt. What do you have against food, anyways?” Foggy growled, rubbing his hands over his face in exasperation. “Sometimes I wonder if this isn’t just another way for you to punish yourself-” 

“Look, it’s not always that easy for me to just… eat something.” Matt started, frustration clearly mounting in him as well. “The different flavors, the aromas… i-it can be a bit… off-putting sometimes.” 

“Well, you’re going to eat now.” Foggy declared, pointing at him matter-of-factly. “What do you want for breakfast?” 

Even pancakes didn’t really sound good, but Matt would try to force down a little food to keep the peace. If he could also prevent yesterday’s nausea from reoccurring, then that would also be a huge plus. Finally, though not without some debate between them, they agreed on plain toast. Foggy had tried to push the suggestion of butter, maybe a little jam, but Matt couldn’t imagine either being easy enough to swallow at the moment. Just the idea of such rich flavors sent a queasiness creeping up his esophagus all over again. 

Matt choked down the dry toast with the help of a glass full of water, which also didn’t taste very good- he was having a harder time than usual tuning out the chemical traces, the aftertaste of copper heavy on his tongue- but he did manage to keep it all down. Foggy gingerly handed him his medicine and Matt swallowed it down yet again, as fast as he could to avoid tasting the capsule this time around. Again, he was only mildly successful. 

An hour later there was that burn in his stomach, but it certainly had been subdued by the presence of the toast and water. For that at least Matt was grateful. 

Foggy had no choice but to focus even harder on his paperwork, now that he would be meeting Jim the following day instead of the following week. He dove into the work steadfastly, realizing about halfway through the afternoon that Matt had quietly withdrawn into the bedroom and was curled up under all the blankets. It was always a relief to Foggy when the man slept, though these days it was so often shadowed by the concern of how he _awoke._

~~~

When Matt woke up Monday morning he immediately knew something was wrong. The whine of Foggy’s alarm came in sharp, tinny, and Matt’s vulnerable eardrums cringed under the weight of its tenor. He was also freezing- soaked through with a cold sweat. He clutched hold of the blanket and nearly pulled it up over his head, curling into himself and desperately waiting for the brutal sound to equalize. He was more than thankful when it did, but uneasy to find that a headache remained in its place. 

_“Shit.”_ Foggy mumbled to himself, stirring next to Matt, and he lazily swatted at his phone until he managed to swipe off the alarm. “We need to get up Matty,” he garbled into his hand with a yawn.

Matt tried to take stock of himself, detail what else might be amiss, but he was having a hard time focusing around the headache. He finally resolved to take a small first step and rolled onto his back, though he was dismayed to find that the whole room went with him. Matt tangled his fist into the loose sheets below him and held his breath, clutching desperately for something solid and reliable until his balance levelled off. 

“Hey Matt, you awake?” Foggy asked, sluggishly pulling himself into a sitting position. It had been yet another night of inadequate sleep, even if there hadn’t been any official incidents to keep him up. It was as if his body now believed that this was the norm he desired; several hours of fitful slumber here and there followed by long days of stress and worry. _Perfect._

Matt sort of grunted in return- apprehensive to speak, afraid to move. Slowly he propped himself up onto his elbows; this headache was unlike most others that he usually endured, save for maybe one that might accompany a _head injury._ It felt like there was a layer of tight padding enveloping his skull, muffling his thoughts and dulling his ability to situate himself in the space around him. He wet his lips, eyes darting sporadically, as he tried to fight off the dread that threatened to creep in on him. He felt… restricted. _Disabled._

Foggy lumbered out of bed, dragging himself across the wood floor to his closet. He spent about a minute scrounging for presentable clothing before he glanced and noticed Matt still under the covers, slightly crumpled, eyes wide in distress. 

“You okay?” Foggy asked carefully. 

“Yeah, I just- I just have a headache.” Matt mumbled, wetting his lips again. He shakily pulled back the blankets and planted his feet on the cold floor, head swaying all the while. Matt couldn’t help but hesitate, forcing one more uncertain exhale before he pushed to his feet. The room rocked around him, tilting and circling, and he faltered forward, extending his hand to catch himself on the wall. 

“Jesus!” Foggy shouted. He scrambled to Matt’s side, hands extended to help him balance, hooking a steadying arm around Matt’s back. “You are not okay!” he insisted. 

“I-I’m just a little dizzy Foggy…” stammered Matt. He gave his head a brief shake for good measure, though his sense of balance simply flickered like static with each movement. _“damn it.”_ he spat, breath uneven and scattered with a rising panic. 

There was nothing Matt hated quite as much as being dizzy; nothing threw off how he articulated himself in a space more. It made him second guess everything he knew about the area around him, even the solid flooring under his feet. As if that next step could be out into nothing. Of course, with his hearing intact it wasn’t impossible for him to navigate; he’d just have to rely more on the echoes of the space around him. It was exhausting, though, for each movement to not play out quite like he expected. Exhausting and unnerving. 

“Is it the pills again?” Foggy asked weakly, even though he was pretty sure he already knew the answer. 

“I think so.” answered Matt with a shaky exhale. He could nearly feel Foggy’s worried eyes burning into the side of his head. 

“Look, if you aren’t feeling well then we should cancel with Giddings.” Foggy started uneasily. “We’ll reschedule for later in the week. It’s no big deal. Okay?” 

“No, Foggy.” Matt objected, turning his head carefully in Foggy’s direction. “W-we can’t afford to lose this client. You know that. You… you go ahead and meet with Giddings, I’ll be okay here.” he hated the idea of staying behind, but unless things vastly improved in the next hour he simply couldn’t picture a scenario that didn’t end up even more humiliating than the scene he made on Friday. 

“I don’t know, maybe I should stay too…” Foggy suggested, his grip tightening around Matt subconsciously. 

“No. F-Foggy- you should go. I’ll be fine. Okay?” Matt forced, trying to look as convincingly stable as possible for Foggy’s sake. He even tried to force a flicker of a grin, though it didn’t quite translate. 

Foggy deliberated for a moment, chewing on the inside of his cheek, before finally giving in. “Okay,” he exhaled. “But rest, okay?”

Matt nodded heavily, rocking just a bit on his feet. That was certainly all he planned on doing in such a sorry state. He headed back to Foggy’s bed- Foggy leading him even that short distance- and sickly crawled back in under the covers. 

Foggy brought Matt another breakfast of plain toast and water, aspirin and antidepressant, and then rushed to get ready for his meeting with Giddings. He showered quickly, combed back his hair, and threw on the only clean suit he could find, resolving to glance in on Matt just one more time before he walked out the door. 

When he found that Matt had already fallen back asleep he wasn’t certain if he should be relieved or concerned; either way, he stepped softly back to the side of the bed, pressing a protective kiss onto Matt’s forehead. 

~~~

“No Matt?” asked Karen with a small, sympathetic smile on her lips. She was trying her best to be positive, if only for Foggy’s sake. 

Foggy simply shook his head, stopping just in the doorway. He looked weighty and tired, his laptop bag hanging carelessly by his side instead of secured over his shoulder. 

Karen’s meager smile slowly evaporated. “Is he okay?” she asked quietly. 

Foggy shook his head again. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. 

Karen took a few steps closer to him, her hand nervously fiddling with the small pendant on her necklace. “Foggy…” she started, her voice hushing, “how long has this been going on?”

Karen didn’t need to specify, Foggy knew exactly what she was referring to: Matt’s compulsion to hurt himself. The bloody knuckles. The frantic humiliation that followed. He thought back on that first night that he intervened, when he caught Matt half-naked, sporting all sorts of scars in varying lengths, patterns, and ages. The X’s, the parallel gashes- all a bit too suspicious to be sustained in any sort of fist-fight. 

“I honestly don’t know…” he answered with a bitter chuckle, looking more and more overwhelmed by the second. “Long enough.” he added sternly. Ultimately he decided to drop his laptop bag into one of the empty waiting chairs beside him, his shoulders now free to hunch forward under the weight of his exhaustion.

Karen nodded knowingly, diverting her eyes to her feet.

“Karen, I don’t know what to do anymore.” Foggy suddenly confessed, desperation seeping in. “I feel like I’m doing the best I can to _hold onto him,_ but he just keeps _sinking.”_ he growled, balling up his fist in front of him. “I took Matt to see Dr. Dano- _who’s an asshole, by the way-_ and all he did was write a prescription. Now, Matt’s taking the pills, but all they’re doing is making him sick.”

Karen watched as Foggy wandered over to her desk, settling on the edge in defeat. “It’ll get better, Foggy,” she assured, following after him. “You have to give it some time.”

“But what if it doesn’t? What if it just gets worse?” questioned Foggy, desperation steadily mingling with aggravation. “Matt isn’t like everyone else. He feels things differently. I just… I’m afraid I’m going to lose him…”

“You won’t lose him.” Karen stated, placing a sympathetic hand on Foggy’s shoulder. “Matt’s strong, you know he is.”

“Yeah but he’s getting tired. I can see it. I’m afraid that he’s starting to give up…” Foggy wavered, his brow trembling. _And how the hell do you help someone who doesn’t seem to care whether or not he lives or dies, anyways?_ he thought, shuddering at that particularly intrusive idea and quickly extinguishing it. He was unwilling to say those words aloud to Karen, unwilling to even think such a thing- that Matt might _want_ to die- as if the thought alone could manifest such an unspeakable outcome. 

Foggy’s eyes burned with the threat of tears, his throat cringing. “I don’t know what I’d do…” he vaguely uttered. 

“ _Shh,_ Foggy…” Karen cooed, her hand circling softly, unaware of all the nightmarish scenarios playing out in Foggy’s head. She waited out the silence, waited with Foggy until he was ready to speak again. In the time they’d known each other, he hadn’t entrusted her with very much information at all about Matt Murdock, and most of it he claimed to keep to himself for Matt’s sake. But Foggy clearly needed to talk, and he was looking a little thinner these days as well. 

Finally, after what felt like several minutes of a dense silence Foggy looked up again, forcing a calmer demeanor, and suddenly asked with a sniff, “has Matt ever told you how he lost his eyesight?”

The question certainly took Karen off guard. “Car accident…” she quietly replied with a shrug, tucking her hair behind her ear.

“That’s just the modest, short version that Matt likes to tell.” Foggy scoffed, dismissing her answer with the swipe of his hand. “My parents read about it when it happened- everyone in Hell’s Kitchen was talking about it. Matt jumped in front of a truck to push an old man out of the way- _when he was nine.”_ Foggy emphasized, baring his palms. “When I was nine I don’t think I would have even considered the _possibility_ of saving that guy’s life, I probably would have just looked on in horror, or, I don’t know, ran away. Not Matt. _Because he’s different_. He’s stubborn as hell and naïve to his own limitations, but the man’s moral compass always points north, and it always has. It’s like he was born with this immeasurable goodness in him, this unshakeable desire to always do the right thing.” 

“Foggy…” Karen started, a peculiar inquisitive hitch in her voice. “Do you…wish you were more like Matt?”

Foggy sighed, shoulders dropping back down with fatigue. “I used to…” he admitted, “Not anymore. In college, he would talk about how much he wanted to help people; how getting his law degree wasn’t about the money. At first, I thought it was just something he said, you know, like everyone else… I mean, sure, I wanted to help others, but I wanted to earn some cash doing it. One day I just realized that Matt was telling the truth… that really was all he cared about. _Helping people._ I think I probably fell in love with him for it… even back then…” he trailed, a glimpse in his mind of a younger Matthew grinning back at him. These days, it nearly pained him to recall such a sight. 

Karen couldn’t help but blush at those words; it was the first time that Foggy had admitted his strong feelings for Matt aloud. Foggy was in love with Matt, _of course,_ because there was something unequivocally captivating about Matt Murdock. She was already aware of those qualities that Foggy spoke about with such exasperated bewilderment, she felt them the moment that Matt brought her to his apartment to keep her safe. It was easy to care for Matt, even if he was so aloof and secretive. 

“I used to envy him,” Foggy continued, sounding suddenly hoarse, “but now I know what that kind of character gets you. I’ve seen it up close. I used to think that most things came easy for Matt- even being blind- he made it all look so damn easy. Now I know that everything is just…harder for him. Nothing comes easy, everything is a struggle.” Foggy shook his head slowly. “Matt would gladly be a hero for any stranger in the street…anyone but himself. Karen, someone has to take care of _him.”_ he demanded, his voice cracking, eyes blinking erratically in an attempt to fight off the returning threat of tears. 

“Who’s going to take care of you then?” she asked with hushed sincerity. 

“I’ll manage.” Foggy resolved with a solemn nod, his lips tight. “Matt made me a better person. I don’t know if I can return the favor, but I need to help him get better… _I need him to get better.”_ he demanded, his voice actively trembling again. 

It was then that there was a knock at the door, startling them both. Neither of them had noticed the dark silhouette that materialized through the frosted glass pane of the door, the figure that probably belonged to their client. 

“That’s gotta be Giddings,” Foggy rasped, dragging his sleeve quickly across his eyes and taking a deep breath to compose himself. 

“I’ll get it,” Karen offered. 

“Mr. Giddings,” Foggy greeted as Karen tugged open the door, revealing the man they expected to arrive just a little bit later on the other side. He hoped that Giddings didn’t know his face well enough yet to be able to tell that it was probably quite red, his eyes undoubtedly puffy. 

“Thanks again for seeing me on such short notice,” Giddings replied, striding in and giving Foggy’s hand a firm shake. He caught on to Matt’s lack of attendance fairly quickly, glancing about the room with reticence. 

Foggy picked up on the man’s puzzlement, fabricating a quick and simple excuse. “My partner won’t be joining us today, I hope that’s okay. he’s working on… something else at the moment.” he shrugged, offering Giddings an extra friendly smile so as to help persuade him to move on, preferably without any follow up questions. 

“Sure, that’ll be fine.” answered Giddings, buying the grin and mirroring it. “I mainly wanted to discuss the summons process a bit more, possibly get a look at a rough draft, if you have one ready.”

“Sure thing!” Foggy forced his enthusiasm, though all he could truly think about was getting back home to Matt when this was all over. “Why don’t you head on into the conference room, and I’ll be right behind you.” 

Foggy waited until the man was out of earshot, and then turned fretfully to Karen, “Karen, can you do me a favor? Please?” he muttered. Karen nodded heartily in return, sensing the importance of the assignment to come. 

“Can you please just call Matt? Check in on him?” Foggy whispered, his face beset with unchecked anxiety all over again.

“Sure, Foggy.” Karen spoke softly in return, continuing her fervent nod. “I’ll call right now.”

Foggy took his place in the conference room across from Giddings, who got right down to business. He looked over the rough draft that Foggy laid out for him, had even begun to formulate some early questions, but all Foggy could focus on was the fact that he _couldn’t_ hear the muffled sounds of Karen on the phone with Matt in the next room. 

With each passing second of silence he felt his chest and stomach tighten, a queasy dread slowly crawling up his abdomen. Matt was tired, that was a given, but he was also a pretty light sleeper. Foggy could recollect a handful of times that he had managed to awaken the man with a _sigh_ alone. There was no reason for him to ignore his phone… no reason, unless, he was _unable_ to answer it. 

After what felt like ten minutes Karen finally appeared in the doorway, but her eyes were flashing concern. 

“Can you excuse me for a moment?” Foggy blurted, interrupting his one and only client mid-sentence. He rushed to the door, already feeling slightly woozy. 

“He didn’t answer.” Karen relinquished in a whisper, pulling her fingers to her lips nervously. “I called twice.” 

Foggy tried to swallow down the strangling fear that crept into his throat, decisively turning back into the conference room without hesitation. “Jim- I’m really sorry about this,” Foggy breathed, too embarrassed to even make direct eye contact with the man, “but something urgent has come up. I have to leave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics taken from "Dead Letter & The Infinite Yes" by Wintersleep.
> 
> ~~~
> 
> On another note; if anyone is interested in a playlist with all the chapter songs in order, you can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/user/jbollenbacher/playlist/1Vd0LX0gk1R3sunUuCzzEQ
> 
> Each song was painstakingly selected, not just for lyrics but also for appropriate feel for each chapter. So, in a way, it's a bit more like a soundtrack. you do have to have a free Spotify account to listen. Thanks for reading!


	15. Dreamers, They Never Learn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Foggy couldn’t help but wonder if there had been other side effects, ones more menacing, that Matt had neglected to mention. It _was_ something he’d do; no matter how much he begged Matt for honesty and transparency the man always seemed to default to guarded secrecy, even when he was feeling his weakest. It was meant to protect Foggy from the worry, sure, but clearly it was also meant to protect Matt from the vulnerability that he found so distasteful and damning. 
> 
> Foggy tried to ignore the all too familiar anger that accompanied such an idea; that Matt believed he needed to be spared the weight of concern. _As if Foggy couldn’t handle it_. But just as that fine, worn out ember of anger started to glare in on him all over again another troublesome thought intruded, shoving its way to the forefront:
> 
> What if Matt had awoken in a panic, panting for air and terrified, and what if he had resorted to hurting himself all over again to try to force control?

_“Dreamers_  
_They never learn_  
_They never learn_  
_Beyond the point_  
_Of no return_  
_Of no return_

_And it's too late_  
_The damage is done_  
_The damage is done_

_This goes_  
_Beyond me_  
_Beyond you_  
_The white room_  
_By a window_  
_Where the sun comes_  
_Through_

_We are_  
_Just happy to serve_  
_Just happy to serve_  
_You…”_

 

 _Please God no. Please God no. Please God no._ It was a feverish mantra, one that Foggy repeated to himself over and over again in the cab ride home. Anything to keep his mind from considering the true possibilities, all the alarming scenarios that might have effectively kept Matt from responding to Karen’s calls. 

He knew Matt hadn’t been feeling well; he’d suffered bouts of nausea over the weekend, dizziness and headache just that morning, but could any of it actually have been debilitating enough to keep him from answering his phone? He’d also managed to spend the majority of the last few days sleeping, which was _certainly_ not like him, though it could also have been just another extreme for his mental illness to take on; for Matt, the middle ground was an elusive thing. 

Foggy couldn’t help but wonder if there had been other side effects, ones more menacing, that Matt had neglected to mention. It _was_ something he’d do; no matter how much he begged Matt for honesty and transparency the man always seemed to default to guarded secrecy, even when he was feeling his weakest. It was meant to protect Foggy from the worry, sure, but clearly it was also meant to protect Matt from the vulnerability that he found so distasteful and damning. 

Foggy tried to ignore the all too familiar anger that accompanied such an idea; that Matt believed he needed to be spared the weight of concern. _As if Foggy couldn’t handle it_. But just as that fine, worn out ember of anger started to glare in on him all over again another troublesome thought intruded, shoving its way to the forefront:

What if Matt had awoken in a panic, panting for air and terrified, and what if he had resorted to hurting himself all over again to try to force control? It was too easy to picture: Matt stumbling down the hall to the bathroom, eyes wide and chest heaving, that desperate look on his face when he can’t keep up with his own emotions, trembling fingers searching through the medicine cabinet for something dangerous. 

And there it was at the back of Foggy’s consciousness, fighting for recognition, dark and menacing like a shadow: the _“black box warning”_. What if… what if Matt had accidentally gone too far this time? 

_What if it wasn’t an accident?_

Foggy shuddered, audibly growling to himself in the back of the cab, attracting a bewildered glance from the driver through the rearview mirror. Suddenly he wanted to shout at the man to pick up the pace, urge him to drive faster. Little good that would do, though. Instead he forced himself to sink back into his seat, internally willing his own nerves to simmer quietly until he could actually get to Matt and assess his condition. 

It felt like it took much longer than it should have to get back to his apartment, much longer than usual to climb the stairwell. His heart raced as he jammed the key in the deadbolt, struggling with it like he usually did as the damn thing was always so stubborn to turn. Then Foggy was rushing the living room, swiftly jogging for the bedroom where he had last seen Matt, where he had left him with an attentive kiss on the forehead. But Matt was no longer in the bed, nor was he anywhere in the bedroom. The covers had been thrown back in a heap, half-hanging over the edge as if Matt had left them in a hurry. 

Foggy’s stomach twisted forcefully, jolting in time with an unwanted spike of adrenaline. He couldn’t help but see it all over again: that moment when Matt dashes to the bathroom, fumbles for the medicine cabinet, finds the razor-

 _Oh Jesus, the bathroom_. Foggy raced down the hall, taking as efficient strides as possible to where he was now unsettlingly certain Matt would be. He found the door just slightly open, a sliver of space too narrow to see through. It took him a moment to work up the courage, but he held his breath and gave the door a firm shove, and there Matt was in the corner, huddled and panting, sweat speckling his brow. 

“Matt!” Foggy exclaimed, rushing toward him and hastily dropping to his knees. To his surprise, Matt looked genuinely startled by his presence, a foreign reaction that Foggy realized he wasn’t really used to coming from him. Matt flinched at first, his mouth suddenly agape, and then he reached out to clutch hold of Foggy’s arm. 

_“F-Foggy-“_ Matt stammered, a look of undeniable relief crashing in on him. It was short-lived, though. His fist suddenly clutched even tighter to Foggy’s arm, nails pressing half-moons, and he cringed, jaw compressing tight. 

_“I can’t-”_ Matt tensed, his voice wavering, barely audible. He growled low then, dropping his head as if he had been struck by a wave of pain. _“I-I can’t block it out.”_

“What? What’s wrong, Matt?” Foggy clamored, instinctively reaching out his free hand to search for injuries, grasping Matt by the wrist, by the waist, by the neck, any vital place he could think to check. 

It took a while for Matt to answer him again, his jaw pulsing and his eyes clamping tight as he waited out whatever invisible affliction had a hold of him. Foggy had begun to wonder if he had even heard him at all until he finally opened his eyes again, miserable and exhausted. 

“I can-can’t focus…” Matt’s breaths came out ragged, his eyes fixed on the floor and his grip still unrelenting. _“I can’t tune it out…”_

It took Foggy a moment to realize that Matt was referring to the noise, all the ambiguous sounds that battered his delicate senses. After all, he couldn’t possibly even to begin to imagine how such a thing might feel. Matt had explained it to some degree before, confiding in him how he had to learn to control it as a child or else it would come in unexpected waves, assaulting him from all angles and swiftly overwhelming him. And, he had noted that it could get much worse when he became anxious or afraid, distress being just distraction enough to draw his focus further outward to the chaos around him.

“It’s okay, Matt,” Foggy automatically blurted, desperate to quell the man’s feverish panic. Matt had finally let go of his arm to clasp his hands over his ears, drawing even tighter into himself and actively shuddering.

The sounds of laughter and anger and sickness, traffic and construction. The shriek of water through pipes, the woozy hum of electricity in all its various forms, the drone of furnaces. It was all an ungodly mess, all experienced as one sinister storm. All abrasively tearing into him in uncontrollable surges, forcing itself on him like an assault. And then there was even a scream in the mix, somewhere raucously crashing through the city, and Matt wanted to vomit again because somebody needed him and he wasn’t out there. He gagged but his stomach was empty, and he was too tired to force it anyways.

 _“Shh…”_ Foggy shushed, though his own heart was skyrocketing into his throat. “It’s okay, buddy, just- just try to relax. Everything’s going to be okay,” he stammered, sounding less certain of those words each time that he recited them. He clasped Matt’s head by the temples, smearing beads of sweat, massaging in soft circles in a desperate attempt to help ease the onslaught. 

Matt tried his hardest to focus in on Foggy alone; the soothing, persuasive tenor of his voice, the warm aura that radiated through his fingers, but just as all the other sounds would ebb away he found himself losing that thread all over again, his mind involuntarily grasping out for some other useless occurrence taking place out in the street. Then all of it would come crashing back in, all at once, filling the small breach that he had managed to hollow out, leaving him only room to start over from scratch. 

Foggy continued to massage Matt’s forehead but it did little good; Matt flinched again as if a new wave of reverberations had just come thundering in. He cringed deeper, eyes nearly rolling back, rocking fretfully and letting out a pained and frustrated cry that seemed to come from the very pit of him.

 _“Fuck!”_ Foggy growled, clasping his hands over Matt’s ears as well in a desperate attempt to double up on the barricade to his hypersensitive eardrums. _“What should I do?”_ he shouted out, though the question wasn’t just for Matt alone. _“Should I get help?”_

_“No!”_ Matt instantly yelped in return, “No Foggy- s-stay, please. Please don’t leave me here-“ he shivered in terror, desperately reaching out for Foggy again and gripping his sleeve tight. 

“Okay, Matt. I won’t go anywhere, I promise.” Foggy soothed, doing his best to assess the reality of their situation. Matt had probably awoken like this, frantic and terrified, dragging himself into the bathroom because it was the only room in the apartment without _windows_. Because that’s where you’re supposed to hide during a disaster. 

And for Matt it was exhausting, too exhausting. Ultimately, he found himself giving up on the fight to separate and sort the sounds and he allowed them to intermingle, surrendering to the inevitable chaos. The various meaningless words and phrases, the sharp glare of car horns and the shuffling of feet. All the vague percussions of steel and concrete, the resonance of wind rustling newspaper and shrieking through alleyways. All of it combined into one exasperating refrain, one that was strangely hypnotizing, a calamitous version of white noise.

Matt whimpered, curled into himself on the floor, nearly depleted. Still the sounds came in unfiltered, though he no longer had the strength to fight them. Instead he just continued to perspire, eyes half-lidded, forehead twitching in distress. And, in his panic-worn mind, the question begged itself; what if all these sounds, what if these voices, _weren’t really out there?_ It was a paranoid thought, one that Matt tried to quickly stamp out, but it shook him nonetheless.

It was like he was watching himself, the nine-year-old version of himself, fall apart all over again, and it felt too real, too goddamn familiar. Matt shuddered again, endlessly quaking, helpless and lost in all the feedback. Vaguely he was aware that Foggy continued his attempts to soothe him, but more and more those eager efforts were just churning deeper into the mix, absently tossed onto the heap of total sensory overkill.

Foggy had noted the gradual change in Matt’s posture, observing as his body threatened to sink all the way to the tile floor, eyes still open though they looked less and less present, face no longer pained but still sporadically tensing and twitching. He resolved that this might be just the time to get him someplace a little more comfortable, and so he gave Matt’s arm a cautious tug. 

“Come on, Matt…” he gently uttered, his voice unintentionally cracking. Matt didn’t acknowledge the cue, though, his face still stunned as if he had lost himself somewhere in that frenzied chorus. 

Foggy tugged again at his arm, and this time he got at least something of a reaction. Matt reached an unsteady hand out for the wall as he helped pull himself to his feet, his body swaying weakly and relying heavily on his best friend’s strength to guide him. Slowly Foggy directed the both of them out of the bathroom, step by uncertain step, until he could confidently release Matt’s weight onto the couch. 

Foggy dropped down behind him then, gently tugging at Matt’s shoulders until his head rested in his lap, promptly stroking the side of his face to remind him that he was still there, he hadn’t gone anywhere. Matt still looked lost, confused, his brow still saturated with fresh perspiration, but the frightened tension in his forehead slowly began to diminish, and his eyes grew tired and heavy lidded. 

_“Shh…”_ Foggy soothed, over and over in time with the stroke of his hand, and the rhythmic repetition of it became something of a breathy lullaby, a meditative plea to coax Matt all the way back out of consciousness, where it would be much safer for him to be at the moment. Back to sleep. 

~~~

The smell and taste of black tar, boiling in his belly. Boiling in his blood. 

_Blood._ He could smell blood, he was now certain of it. It was a scent that he had memorized so long ago that there was no mistaking it. It was a smell he knew personally, intimately. It was a smell that was now so far up his nose that it forced him to gag. 

He couldn’t read where the blood was coming from, though- perhaps it was all around him. Perhaps it was coming from _him_ , but, then again, his blood had already been replaced by that thick, loathsome tar. His veins swelled with it, ready to burst. His whole body throbbed with it, a curious numb ache like he was losing the feeling in his limbs. 

_It had to go._ Suddenly he had a razor, jagged and overused, but it would have to do. He bared his arm, struggling to lift it in front of him, and made a point even in his weakened state to cut as deep as he could, as efficiently as possible with that pathetic strip of rusted metal. All it took was one surgical swipe, and then he was blood-letting it, banishing the black tar from his body. 

What a relief, to feel that anger and venom and hopelessness seep hotly out of him, sticky and scalding as it trickled downward. With it he could feel everything else trickle away, even his fear. Even his willpower. Even his existence. 

He was aware that Foggy was talking then, Foggy and Karen. Karen’s voice came through garbled as if she stood at the far end of a tunnel, but Foggy’s was loud and clear; at least, the parts that found their way to wherever Matt’s mind was hiding, consciously tucked away somewhere they couldn’t quite reach. 

“Karen, I can’t talk long, okay?” Foggy exhaled, pacing somewhere just feet from where Matt then realized he lie.

 _“Well is he okay?”_ Karen muffled out, her voice just a little desperate. 

Foggy sighed, circling the floor with an even more frenzied pace. _“I don’t know,”_ he spat, “but I need to go, before he wakes up and thinks I left him alone. I’ll let you know if anything changes.” 

And Karen’s words were cut short, a response that sounded like the beginnings of her protesting Foggy’s name. 

“Foggy…” Matt mumbled, filling in the blanks for her. He felt the floor vibrate as Foggy closed the space between them, heartrate still an erratic plea. 

“Right here, buddy.” Foggy responded as if he had paced himself out of breath, clutching hold of Matt’s hand on the couch. 

“I don’t…” Matt started, words heavy on his lips, and they were too arduous to force. Foggy waited eagerly beside him, only to realize that was all he was going to get. Carefully he knelt down next to the couch, watched as once again Matt drifted off somewhere unreachable. 

Matt’s body felt weak, heavy and exhausted, utterly drained after that intense assault to his senses. His mind was rattling, though, active like a beehive. He wanted to jump out of his skin, but he also wanted nothing more than to sleep. Here and there he still experienced a random intrusion of noise, though he found himself increasingly unsure of whether or not these sounds and experiences were really real. 

_And…_

And then suddenly he was in a fight, and _it felt good._ Throwing his calculated punches, gladly awaiting each frenzied response. Smelling fear, smelling blood. He wasn’t in the suit though, couldn’t be because he could feel the rush of air on his sweat-drenched arms every time he took a swing. It was a relief to feel so free, to not have to hide behind the smothering mask of armor. 

He could smell canvas and rope and sweaty metal, dust and leather. _He was in the ring._ His opponent was unknown, not exactly the best of fighters, but whoever the man was he had a drive that was at least admirable. 

Matt’s hands felt hot and restrained under the weight of the boxing gloves, but he enjoyed the harsh smack of leather on his cheek as his opponent landed another blow, a warning shot that he’d better back off. Matt smiled to himself, a grin that surely came across as malicious, but he obliged nonetheless. Really, it was only meant to taunt the figure in front of him anyways. 

He circled the man before him, the man circled him, staring him down. Matt was ready to attack again- this time maybe go in for the kill shot- when he picked up a scent that tugged at the furthest corners of his nostalgia. One tied up in so many early memories, bittersweet and fragile, even more significant than the smell of blood. _It was the scent of his father._

“Dad?” Matt called out, and he was ashamed to find that he sounded like a child again.

The man hesitated, his gloves dropping to his sides in tired defeat. “Matty…” sighed his father’s voice, and Matt could feel him shaking his head, nearly disappointed that he’d been recognized. _“I expected too much of you…”_ he muttered and turned away, his aura slowly fading until Matt realized he was the only one left in the ring. 

~~~

Foggy watched attentively as Matt drifted in and out of consciousness, his figure alternating between a ragdoll-like lifelessness and a feverish, nervous twitch. At times it seemed like he wanted to pull himself out of that spotty consciousness, jolting and sweating as if he was uncomfortable in his skin, or perhaps, as if he were still fighting off the onslaught to his senses. But then he would settle back into the void, body once again slackening even as his eyelids lightly trembled. He hadn’t said much, other than to come up with an occasional low growl, and then there had been that one time that he managed Foggy’s name. 

But with each passing hour Foggy found himself more and more concerned, desperately fighting off any “what if” scenarios that threatened to taunt him as he waited for an improvement in Matt’s condition. One thing was certain, if Matt managed to make it out of all this without any lasting damage then he was sure as hell never swallowing one of those goddamned pills again. They were going in the trash. The two of them would just have to look elsewhere for hope and stability; though Foggy also preferred not to consider their _lack of options_ at the moment either. 

So instead he focused in on Matt only, on tracking his condition. He had taken his place back by Matt’s side on the couch, once again cradling his head in his lap and watching over him with a persistent vigilance. Gradually his lower back began to cramp, one of his legs began to numb and tingle, but he was utterly determined to wait this whole thing out with him, terrified that Matt might wake up again at any moment and first think that Foggy had abandoned him. 

He became increasingly aware of the light gradually dimming around him, his living room taking on a desolate blue tinge as the sun set. Briefly he considered taking a quick piss break, when suddenly Matt was mumbling something inaudible, stirring lightly in his lap. 

_“I didn’t know…”_ whispered Matt, his words catching lazily on his lips. 

“What, Matt?” Foggy asked, having not quite understood him. 

“I didn’t know…” Matt repeated again, shaking his head languidly back and forth, his eyes now just barely open. _“I didn’t know…”_

Foggy leaned in closer, fingers combing Matt’s hair off his still clammy forehead. “Didn’t know what?” he whispered in return. He wasn’t even sure if Matt had repeated himself for Foggy’s sake, or if he was just suffering some sort of waking nightmare that he happened to be visualizing aloud. “What is it?” 

Matt’s throat quivered as if he struggled with the words, as if he were about to confess one of his darkest secrets. “He… he was supposed to lose. I heard it. They told him to lose.” Matt trembled out, eyelids fluttering lazily. 

“What?” breathed Foggy, thoroughly confused and now almost entirely certain that Matt was suffering a hallucination. Maybe he was in worse shape than Foggy guessed. 

“He was supposed to lose, but I told him to win.” Matt gritted, swallowing the words as his bottom lip shivered, tears accumulating at the furthest corners of his eyelids. 

Foggy just sat there mystified, mouth ajar, doing his best to decipher the riddle that Matt was presenting him with. It was evident that he thought the message was an important one to share, one that visibly unraveled him as he tried his damnedest to do so. 

“I just wanted him to win. I swear to god I didn’t know.” Matt pleaded again in the saturated dusk, his tears reflecting whatever little light remained. 

“Okay, buddy…” Foggy whispered, determined to keep Matt from overtaxing himself again in his fragile state. “It’s okay, _you didn’t know.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and lyrics taken from "Daydreaming" by Radiohead. 
> 
> ~~~
> 
> On another note; if anyone is interested in a playlist with all the chapter songs in order, you can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/user/jbollenbacher/playlist/1Vd0LX0gk1R3sunUuCzzEQ
> 
> Each song was painstakingly selected, not just for lyrics but also for appropriate feel for each chapter. So, in a way, it's a bit more like a soundtrack. you do have to have a free Spotify account to listen. Thanks for reading!


	16. I Will Carry You Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Dr. Dano,_ he wrote. _This is Foggy Nelson, I came into your office a couple weeks ago with a friend, Matt Murdock. You mentioned to us that therapy might be beneficial for Matt; I’m just emailing to ask if you might have a list of therapists you could recommend?_
> 
> Foggy read over the short message multiple times, perturbed at how simple and straightforward it all appeared on screen. There wasn’t even a trace of the helpless fear that had throttled the both of them over the past few days, no sense of desperate desolation. He hadn’t even mentioned how the pills had failed Matt, or how he feared that they might be on their last leg.
> 
> All in all, it didn’t seem to be even close to an accurate portrait of their current state, but, in the end it didn’t really matter. All he needed from Dano was the information, that was it. A place to start. _A fucking breadcrumb._

_“To the end I would defend you_  
_In Heaven I'd suspend you_  
_I only want to save you_  
_I only want the truth_

_It's a lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lonely coming down_  
_It's a lo-lo-lo-lo-lo-lonely coming down_

_To the death I will defend you_  
_With my life I will protect you_  
_I know I'm going to save you_  
_I'll do all I can do_

_Alone I'll beat the flames down_  
_I will defend your name_  
_I'll descend through the fire_  
_I will carry you home_  
_I will carry you home…"_

 

Foggy sat at the kitchen table, his fingers resting lightly on the keyboard of his laptop, ready and waiting. It was early morning, 5am-- _an ungodly hour_ \-- but the promise of a restful sleep had become a foreign concept months ago, anyhow. Hell, he probably couldn’t have slept even if he wanted to.

Hours ago he had hauled a still fragile, still shaken Matt Murdock to the bedroom, having waited with him on the couch until he stopped shivering and sweating, until he presented a more stable demeanor that wasn’t quite so troublesome and threatening. Matt had still been quiet, still seemed weak and rattled, but gradually he appeared to be regaining his composure. That, at least, had to mean something. 

Foggy continued his vigilant watch for any worrying, last minute side effects that might make themselves known early in the morning; he glanced in on Matt every hour, on the hour, all the while racking his brain for a plan of action, pacing the living room and the kitchen while Matt continued to sleep off the chemicals.

More than anything, Foggy refused to tolerate this defeat. He simply would not accept it. Instead, he forced his tired mind to hunt feverishly for a fresh answer, for anything that could be viewed as a next step forward, a lifeline up and out of their living hell. His mind whirred until his temples throbbed, and it was just when the night sky began to haze a muted blue that he finalized his next plan of action.

Then Foggy had planted himself in front of his laptop, waiting in hesitation. It was an email he almost dreaded sending, mainly due to its recipient, but he decided that it was his only visible option. He took a deep breath and began typing, willing himself to be strong, resolute. 

_Dr. Dano,_ he wrote. _This is Foggy Nelson, I came into your office a couple weeks ago with a friend, Matt Murdock. You mentioned to us that therapy might be beneficial for Matt; I’m just emailing to ask if you might have a list of therapists you could recommend?_

Foggy read over the short message multiple times, perturbed at how simple and straightforward it all appeared on screen. There wasn’t even a trace of the helpless fear that had throttled the both of them over the past few days, no sense of desperate desolation. He hadn’t even mentioned how the pills had failed Matt, or how he feared that they might be on their last leg. 

All in all, it didn’t seem to be even close to an accurate portrait of their current state, but, in the end it didn’t really matter. All he needed from Dano was the information, that was it. A place to start. _A fucking breadcrumb._

_Thanks_ , he casually signed, _Foggy Nelson._

~~~

After Foggy sent his email to Dr. Dano he dragged himself over to the couch, concluding internally that he only wanted to find a more comfortable place to sit whilst he turned his newest plan over in his head. It wasn’t long before his eyes grew heavy, though, that little seed of hope being just solace enough to allow him to let his guard down, to sink into a much-needed catnap. 

He thought that he was only resting his eyes, hadn’t even realize that hours had passed, until he was half-aware that Matt was standing before him, rubbing his face groggily. 

“Foggy…” Matt croaked, his voice a little raw. 

Foggy pulled himself quickly out of his half-hearted slumber, erratically blinking the sleep from his reluctant eyes. “Matt,” he exclaimed, hauling himself up off the couch. “You’re on your feet.”

Matt nodded feebly, his expression one of utter defeat. “I don’t… I don’t know what happened,” he confessed, shrugging one shoulder weakly. 

“Doesn’t matter.” Foggy stated, welcoming the soothing relief that filtered through him at the sight of Matt in front of him, _a terrible mess_ but looking much better than he had just hours ago. In fact, Foggy couldn’t help but drink in such a sight: Matt’s always impressive display of bed-head, his hoodie hanging lazily open, his bare stomach that was still chiseled though it was looking a little more drawn in these days. It was all too beautiful. “I’m just glad you’re feeling better,” he sighed. 

Matt nodded, though reluctantly; Foggy might have been satisfied with his recovery, but he certainly wasn’t. He was still busily dissecting the past 48 hours, scrutinizing the minutes closely to work out where it had all gone so wrong, eager to make sense of how he had managed to fail, yet again. “I-I’m sorry I didn’t- I’m sorry I couldn’t handle it, Foggy,” mumbled Matt.

“Hey, don’t even.” Foggy insisted, protesting with an ardent shake of his head. There was no need for Matt to apologize, no need for him to carry any blame. Foggy had known from the beginning that the medication might be a shot in the dark, and he was more than aware of Matt’s affinity for influential substances. In his mind, Matt had been brave to just give it a try.

Matt still didn’t look convinced, but he did look like he had something to say. His hand fidgeted lightly at his side, pads of his fingers rubbing anxiously as they so often did when he was a step too far out of his comfort zone. “Thank you…” he practically whispered, pausing to wet his lips, “for taking care of me. I really appreciate it.”

The soothing, low timber of his voice was a little intoxicating to Foggy, and he could nearly feel it ghosting over his skin, coaxing a silent shiver. He took a moment to absorb the look on Matt’s face; his eyes soft and tired, just a touch apprehensive from the brief silence. “Of course,” Foggy responded gently, forcing an awkward, wispy chuckle. 

Matt blinked, and it looked like he still had more to say. He stepped in closer, his hand gingerly reaching upward, fingers moving to lightly tickle the side of Foggy’s two-day-old stubble. His fingertips rested under the hollow of Foggy’s jawline, then, drawing him in close and guiding his mouth for a delicate kiss. Matt’s lips lingered, soft skin grazing rhythmically back and forth until he pulled away with a restrained sigh.

It felt like an _I love you._

~~~

Dr. Dano’s response was prompt and curt, classically impersonal. Really, Foggy didn’t even know if the email had come from the man himself or some assistant, but he decided that he didn’t really care. Now he had a list of names, a starting position. It was all he needed to grasp onto at the moment, all he needed to tow himself and Matt forward. 

The list consisted of just four names, all of them only a short cab’s ride away. Foggy looked up each one of them and scrutinized their photographs, tried his best to gauge their personalities through the computer screen. He meticulously scoured their lists of expertise, and, in the end, it was a Dr. Ellen Landis who displayed the most impressive array of challenging specialties: phobias, obsessive-compulsive disorders, panic disorders, self-injury, addictions, eating disorders, sexual abuse, PTSD. It seemed that she was used to seeing humanity at its messiest, and certainly she _had_ to have some patience with such an exhaustive list. 

That, Foggy decided, was precisely what Matt needed: experience, and a hell of a lot of patience. 

For now, his plan was simple; he would go to the shrink, and he would go _alone_. He would discuss Matt with Dr. Landis, and, hopefully, gain at least a glimmer of insight where he now found only debilitating confusion. If Landis could shine even a sliver of light on how Foggy should handle Matt’s mental illness then that, he decided, would be a small victory in itself. 

Foggy had also thought frequently about the curious message that Matt shared with him the night before, about how he _“just wanted him to win”_ , how he _“didn’t know”_. Matt hadn’t mentioned it once he came around, and it wasn’t even clear that he recalled saying such things. Deep down, Foggy suspected that it had something to do with his father, though, and so his gut told him the subject would be a sticky and sensitive one. So, he stowed it away for the time being, resolving to bring it up at a time when Matt seemed a bit more sure-footed. 

Dr. Landis had a cancellation that Friday, early evening, and so Foggy jumped on the opportunity. He made the appointment while under the guise of a quick trip to the grocery store, knowing all too well that Matt was more than comfortable staying behind. There was at least one flaw with Foggy’s plan thus far, however: in order to get out of the house Friday evening, he would have to _lie._ The realization was almost instantaneous after he successfully scheduled the appointment; there was no way he could be honest with Matt over where he was going. Not yet, at least. Not until he could vouch for Dr. Landis’ character, insist that she wasn’t one of _those_ counselors. 

And this was no easy feat with a human lie detector. It didn’t really matter what kind of fib Foggy constructed, simple or exquisite- Matt would know. Disappearing for an hour or so was _certainly_ not an option, not when Matt already waited so patiently for Foggy’s final abandonment. 

_Yeah, he would have to lie._ It was going to hurt, but it was a risk he’d have to take. 

~~~

Foggy spent far too much time constructing his lie, and in the end, it still only amounted to something of a jumbled mess. He had ruminated for hours over the best technique, revisiting multiple contradictory tips he picked up over the years: _keep the lie simple, so it doesn’t seem too hard to believe,_ or, _provide very specific details, so it seems like it actually happened. Watch your body language, make eye contact._ There were no tips, of course, on how to lie to someone who couldn’t actually be lied to. 

It was Karen who unknowingly provided Foggy with his alibi. She called Tuesday morning, still livid over being hung up on the day before, to check in on Matt and to inform Foggy that Jim Giddings, _god knows why,_ was willing to give them one last shot. She announced that she had lied for him, disclosing to Giddings that Foggy’s mother was critically ill in the hospital. They were set once again for the following Monday, which had been their original appointment to begin with. In many ways they were still at square one with their client, though they had somehow managed to rack up quite the tally of strikes against them already. 

Foggy waited until Friday afternoon to unveil his lie, partly because he knew he wouldn’t be able to maintain the charade for long, partly because he was having second thoughts, and partly out of cowardice. He knew it wasn’t going to be pretty the minute that he cleared his throat:

“Listen, Matt…” he started, eyes to the floor, already well aware of a small jolt to his own pulse. “Since Giddings decided to give us another shot, I agreed to meet with him this evening, you know, tie up some of the loose ends from our meeting this past Monday. That way we’ll be in good shape next Monday… we can actually start moving forward on this case. I feel like we kind of owe it to him.”

Foggy paused only briefly to gauge Matt’s reaction thus far, and his pulse only heightened when he caught a glance of Matt’s increasing bewilderment. He quickly returned his gaze back to the floor, determined to finish reciting the whole fib. Hell, he was halfway in the hole already. “I think, maybe, it should just be me on this one, you know… just for tonight. Our track record with him has been… not the greatest.” Foggy cringed, his voice unintentionally lilting upward. 

When Foggy first began to speak, Matt wasn’t sure why his heartrate was so erratic. It didn’t take him long to figure out that he was lying, though. After that, Matt hadn’t really even bothered to listen to the whole oration; the very knowledge that Foggy was lying to him, that he was keeping something from him, instantly turned his stomach to knots. 

It was kind of an unfamiliar reaction. Foggy had certainly kept his secrets over the years, he hadn’t shared _everything_ with Matt. In the past, Matt had been fine with that. He had never really expected absolute honesty from Foggy, knowing too well just how often the average person stretched the truth. Foggy would lie, usually about little things, and Matt would look past it. He sure as hell wasn’t the portrait of wholesome honesty himself. 

Why, then, was it making him so sick to his stomach _now?_ The room was suddenly quiet, and Matt realized he was expected to respond, probably to give the affirmative. He opened his mouth to speak but he wasn’t sure what to say, so instead he settled on a nod, throwing in a soft “Okay…”. 

There was a deep and distinctly bitter rumble of jealousy in Matt’s gut, churning and whispering angrily. It was hard to suppress, all the faint suggestions in the back of his mind, the questions of why Foggy would lie, who he was _really going to be with_. The twisted idea surfaced that he could easily follow Foggy to find out the real truth, tail him from the rooftops, that _Foggy would never know,_ and Matt forced the tempting notion back down to its dark depths. That, in itself, would be wholly dishonest. 

“Look, if anything happens, _anything at all,_ you call me. Got it?” Foggy added nervously, and Matt could sense he was no longer directing his words down to his own feet. Matt nodded again out of obligation. 

Foggy’s stomach was also churning; it had become so much harder for him to lie to Matt after he found out that he always knew, each and every time. Even now he could easily recognize the look in Matt’s eyes, the tinge of puzzled injury that said Matt knew he was being lied to. Then Foggy wanted to come clean, tell him, _I know you know I’m lying, but I promise it’s not a bad thing. I promise I’m not going to hurt you._

Instead, he reached up to grasp Matt by the cheek, scratching softly at the stubble there with the edge of his thumb. “Hey, just trust me, okay?” he whispered gently. 

There was the briefest flash of alarm across Matt’s face, an instinctive reaction that vocalized his deepest fears- _that no one can be trusted, not really_. He overcame it, though, his fine features untensing, his brow relaxing. He swallowed, threw in one final nod for good measure. 

~~~

Ellen Landis’ office was a small room tucked into the back corner of an old brownstone. The waiting area didn’t present the same impressive sparkle that Dano’s did- with its richly polished wood moulding and plush furniture- but it was comfortably quaint. The artwork was a step up, at least, and there was no odd white noise device in the corner that was somehow expected to soothe awaiting patients with illusions of babbling brooks and mild wind storms. 

Foggy half-heartedly scribbled his information onto the provided paperwork, knowing full well that this visit really had nothing to do with him; he was more of a messenger, a vessel who hoped to extricate the help that Matt needed, somehow finding a way to bring it back to him and inject him with it-- like a dose of medicine. 

He tried not to dwell on the look in Matt’s eyes when he picked up on the lie, and he fought the urge to imagine what kind of thoughts might be going through the man’s head back at the apartment. Where Foggy really went, for how long. _Just trust me,_ Foggy urged again to himself, queasily shooing away a sad image of Matt waiting for him alone in the dark.

And then the door in front of him was heavily creaking open, revealing the older woman that he had fervently researched just days before. “Mr. Nelson, I presume?” smiled Ellen Landis. 

“ _Ah-_ yes,” Foggy responded, pushing himself out of his chair and meeting her at the door with a hand shake. “Most people just call me Foggy, though.”

“Will do. Come on in, sit wherever you like.” she instructed, taking a seat next to her desk. She had a slight hitch to her step, though she still carried herself with an overall grace despite it. There was something youthful in her face that Foggy hadn’t expected, her eyes bright and green, though her hair was a shock of silver and her laugh lines pulled fairly deep around her eyes and mouth. Her smile was warm, friendly. None of this mattered in regards to Matt, of course, but it made Foggy feel a bit more at ease himself, which was vital if he was about to disclose his deepest fears over his _best friend-slash-probably lover’s_ dark and destructive habits. 

Foggy assessed the collection of chairs around the room and chose the seat directly across from her. He was decently surprised by how nervous he suddenly felt, as if he had just managed to select the interrogation chair. “Um, here…” he mumbled, handing over the now wrinkled paperwork. “I didn’t actually fill most of it out, though. See, I’m here because- well, it’s not for me,” he shrugged sharply. 

Landis accepted the paperwork with a slow nod, listening intently.

“I have this friend, and, I swear to god it’s not me- I know everyone says that, but in this case, it really isn’t.” Foggy rambled, assertively pointing at the woman in front of him. 

“Fair enough.” Dr. Landis replied, stifling a small smile. “Go ahead and tell me about your friend.”

“He’s… he’s not doing well. I want to help him, but I don’t know if I can. It seems like the more I try to help, the worse he gets. But, then, there are some good days, and then I think that maybe I _am_ helping…”

“What’s his name?” she enquired. 

“Matt.” Foggy responded, fists nervously pulsing on the armrests of his chair. 

“Well, it sounds like you’re really trying to be a good friend to Matt, and oftentimes that can be helpful in itself. What kind of problem is Matt having?” asked Landis. 

Foggy exhaled, slumping back slightly then as if the air had been let out of him. _Where to begin?_ “He’s depressed… anxious… he- he gets so worked up and he ends up _hurting himself_. There’s so much pain there… pain and anger, _so much anger…”_ he muttered, shaking his head. “He won’t take care of himself, half the time I can’t tell if he really is that clueless about his own limits, or if he really just doesn’t care whether or not he lives or dies.” Foggy spilled, and it was the first time he heard himself say it aloud. The mere thought that Matt might _want to die_ sent his gut reeling all over again. 

“Hmm…” Ellen hummed to herself, sitting back as well. “You know, oftentimes when a person self-harms it isn’t an indication of suicidal thoughts at all, but actually a way of trying to regain control over their most difficult emotions. Some resort to self-injury when they fear that they have no control over their own lives. Some, because they feel bored. Others do so as a way of self-punishment. Nearly always it’s viewed by the individual as a way to cope with a situation that they feel they aren’t equipped to handle alone.” 

Foggy quietly soaked in the information; it was uncanny, how Matt already fit so remarkably well into the definition. Really, it was more of a relief then he would have expected, that Matt might just be a _textbook cutter_. If that was the case, maybe it wasn’t all so hopeless after all. 

“That isn’t to say, of course, that some self-injurers don’t go on to develop suicidal tendencies. I’m also obligated to tell you, as I’m sure you’ve already gathered, that it can be quite a dangerous habit on its own. Matt’s risking infection, permanent damage. And there’s always the concern that he might accidentally do more harm than he intends to. Does Matt cut his thighs?” she asked, and her candor caught Foggy off guard. 

“Um- y-yeah, actually. Well, mainly…” he stuttered out, briefly wondering how the hell she had managed to guess. 

Landis nodded. “It’s a common area, usually the easiest to hide. Unfortunately, a lot of people aren’t aware that the femoral artery is only about an inch deep in an average sized individual, and even closer to the surface the nearer you get to the groin. It is possible for a person to nick it unintentionally.” 

A taste of fear briefly leapt from Foggy’s heart to his throat, but he swallowed it back down. This was the kind of information he came for, after all. He suppressed the image of the deep cut that he had found Matt with what now felt like ages ago, that angry assemblage of hack marks that sat just under his hip, the towel in the sink clotted with blood. Foggy cleared his throat. “How do I get him to stop?”

At that question, Dr. Landis grew a bit more silent, retrospective. “Well, it can be difficult… try thinking of it as an addiction. First, it’s important to know _why_ Matt cuts. Have you ever asked him?”

Foggy shifted uneasily, now dumbly aware and just a bit embarrassed over the absolute lack of communicating he and Matt had done regarding the compulsive habit. “Matt doesn’t really communicate, so much as mumble and shrug…” Foggy exhaled, resting his temple on his knuckles. “…No, I haven’t. But I’m pretty sure he’d just get pissed if I did, maybe throw a series of vague facial expressions in my direction.”

“Okay,” Landis nodded coolly, deliberating briefly to herself. “You mentioned that Matt is an anxious person. Does he experience panic attacks?” 

Foggy nodded slowly, pulling his lips thin. “Yeah. Sometimes he wakes up with them. He has nightmares, too, I think… he won’t really talk about those either, though.”

She continued her nod, “And, when Matt has a panic attack, how does he handle it? Does he hurt himself then?”

Foggy nodded again, grimly.

“So it would seem that Matt either believes he can’t handle the panic attack and it must be stopped in its tracks, or, he feels he needs to be punished for having one in the first place. It could be both." Landis surmised. "The fact that Matt chooses to injure himself when he has a panic attack tells me that at least deep down he is aware that it’s a mental affliction, not physical. Otherwise, he might be _fearing_ for his physical health. Some people truly believe that they’re having a heart attack when they experience an attack, or they worry that they have brain cancer. Chances are, Matt knows that he is the root of his own anxiety, at least.” 

“Is that… good?” Foggy awkwardly shrugged. 

“It can be," she informed, "though it might not be something that he’s deliberately aware of. It’s also very possible that Matt’s stuck in a vicious cycle. He cuts because he’s anxious, he’s angry because he cuts, and he’s depressed and anxious that it all feels so far out of his control.” 

“Okay, so what can him and I do to fix it?” Foggy eagerly pried. 

“Well, conventionally, cognitive behavioral therapy is considered one of the most successful methods today, and some studies show that it’s more effective than medication alone. The two of them together typically present the highest success rates.” 

Foggy had begun to feel hopeful, but now the despondence was working its way back in, like a little black worm. He exhaled slowly, shutting his eyes. “Is there any chance he can get better without therapy or medication? I’d probably have to sedate him in order to ever get him to a shrink again, and he just came off a really bad reaction to the antidepressant _Effexor_.”

“Certainly it’s possible,” Landis responded, though Foggy could sense her hesitation. “But Matt needs to unlearn the lies his biggest fears have taught him. Matt’s looking at himself and the world through distorted glasses, in a way. It can be quite difficult for a person to overcome that alone… which is why so many people end up developing harmful coping strategies in the first place.” 

Foggy started to squirm in his chair, his throat tightening all over again. “I just… I just don’t know what the hell _I can do anymore,”_ he blurted, “he has this irrational fear of therapists because of a really shitty childhood experience, and that medicine made him _so sick…”_

“Sometimes one medication might not be the right fit for a person, but another works perfectly well. Have the two of you thought of switching him to a different antidepressant?”

“No- no way in _hell.”_ Foggy shook his head fervently. “We can’t go through that again. I can’t put him through that again. Look, Matt, he’s not like anyone else. He’s… different. And he's really sensitive to that kind of stuff.”

Dr. Landis nodded quietly, providing Foggy with further opportunity to vent. 

Foggy released a heated sigh, raked his fingers through his hair. “He’s… he’s such a fucking _mess._ But he’s such a great person- the most selfless person I know. He definitely doesn’t deserve this... to be so angry and depressed and _scared_ …. I just need to find a way to help him. Is there anything else you can think of that I can do for him?”

“It sounds like you’ve appointed yourself as his hero.” she smiled warmly, leaning forward in her chair. “Unfortunately, there’s only so much that we can do for the ones we care for when they’re suffering from mental illness… we can only take them so far. Matt will have to want to get better. Has he expressed a desire to stop cutting?”

“Not exactly. I mean, not word for word. I know he’s ashamed, though. I know he hates himself for it. It’s like there’s some invisible, unreachable standard that he thinks he has to live up to. That, or he feels like he has to make up for some horrible, imagined thing he thinks he did. He drives me fucking nuts…” Foggy laughed, bitter at himself for beginning to tear up. “But… but I love him… and sometimes _I can barely stand it.”_ he propped his elbow up on his knee, pinching the bridge of his nose to will his emotions to a more manageable, less embarrassing level. 

Dr. Landis reached over to her desk for a box of tissues, passing them Foggy’s way. “I would encourage you to try to talk more with Matt about the cutting. Ask him questions. Start small, if you like. If he seems defensive or uncomfortable, then you can back off a little and try again another day.”

“What kind of questions?” Foggy sniffed. 

“Well, why does he think he hurts himself? What does he feel when he self-harms? Does he ever think of quitting? Anything you can come up with, really. Just try to keep yourself calm and avoid an accusatory tone. I’m sure you’re right that he’s feeling a great deal of shame, as most people with compulsive habits do.”

It certainly sounded simple enough, but one could never really be sure when it came to Matt. “What do I do if he won’t talk about it?” asked Foggy. 

Ellen smiled. “Even if he doesn’t respond right away he might just begin to ask himself those very same questions. At the very least you might get him to think a bit more objectively about his habit.” 

Foggy nodded, his shoulders and head bobbing slowly in an almost rhythmical manner whilst he contemplated the assignment. “…Okay,” he quietly conceded. _It was a start._

“So, Foggy, unfortunately our time has come to an end for the day,” Dr. Landis announced. 

Even in the midst of that small pocket of relief that had freed up inside of him Foggy could feel the all too familiar twist of disappointment, a nagging concern that never seemed to stay away for very long. The hour had felt much shorter than he anticipated. 

“If you like, we could schedule another session. Or, if you prefer, you can just hold onto my number, call whenever you feel the need to come in again. You can also call if you have a specific question, and I’ll try to get back to you as soon as I can.” 

Foggy took a deep breath, filling his lungs all the way to his gut and exhaling slowly. He nodded. “I think I’d like to schedule another appointment,” he said, watching as Ellen reached for her planner. “And, um… would you ever be willing to make a house call?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title and song lyrics taken from "I Only Think of You" by The Horrors.
> 
> The chapter-by-chapter playlist can still be found here for those who are interested, though unfortunately one of the albums has since been removed from Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/user/jbollenbacher/playlist/1Vd0LX0gk1R3sunUuCzzEQ

**Author's Note:**

> Work Title is taken from the song "Sorrow" by The National; a beautiful song about the comfort found in depression and the lack of desire to rid oneself of it.


End file.
